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Village Memories. 

Breitmann in Melbourne — 

No. i 

No. 2 

No. 3 

No. 4 

No. 5. At Ballarat 

No. 6. In Melbourne... 

No. 7. De Abejidessen 

No. 8. Gesprachstveise . . . 

No. 9. 77** Ztf/2^ >5V// 

No. 10. Messrs. K. and McK. 

No. 11. Der Breitmann *s Lebeiuohl 

No. 12. Ministerial Changes 












Breitmann's Wiedererscheinung 47 

Breitmann In Barleyment 49 

Thoughts at Home 53 

The Willow 56 

The Best Nurse of All 58 

G. H. Rogers 59 

In Remembrance of A. L. G.... 61 

Wreck of the Rip 63 

Journey of the Wire 64 

The President, The Baron, and The Gardener ... 66 

A Lancashire Mon's Notions o' th' Kunthri ... 70 

No. 11. On Morals 72 

Licensing Day, Hemerald III 73 

Guid Bye, Jamie 76 

Welcome Hame 78 

Nothing to Write 81 

The Companies in Collins Street... 83 

Valedictory 84 

Opening of North-Eastern Railway 85 

The Loves of Donald and Annie 89 

Reminiscences of an Old Actor 92 

Racing Rhymes and Touters' Tips — 

A Request for a Tip. To A. L. G 99 

A Good Thing for the Bookmakers 103 

Melbourne Cup, 1865 106 

Melbourne Cup, 1866 , in 

The Last Champion Race 121 

Melbourne Cup, 1867 127 

Racing Rhymes and Touters' Tips— continued. 

Melbourne Cup, 1868 131 

New Year's Day, 1869 133 

Melbourne Cup, 1869 138 

Melbourne Cup, 1870 139 

The Tout 142 

A Tout's Tip for the Melbourne Cup, 187 i 145 

Melbourne Cup, 1872 147 

A Cup Retrospect and Prospect, 1873 149 

Scenes in the Assembly — 

Scene No. i 152 

The Stranger in the House — 

No. 1 155 

No. 2 ,. ... 157 

No. 3 161 

No. 4 164 

No. 5 167 

The Stranger in the Bay 169 

The Stranger at the Races 173 

Herr Von Lay in der Callery 177 

Nursery Rhymes ... 1S0 

Speech on the Land Bill, 1869 , 181 

The Tariff, 1867 185 

Masonic Song 187 

Lines 188 

An Address 190 

An Address 192 

To a Naughty National Bank Shareholder ... 194 



J HE means being bountifully supplied, it becomes the 
duty of the caterer to provide as varied an entertain- 
ment as possible. But mine is no Apician banquet, there is 
nothing rich or rare ; no nightingales' tongues deck the board; 
nearly all is plain roast and boiled. I have endeavoured to 
group together in tlie different courses all the viands "in 
season" procurable from a tolerably well-stocked larder. 
Many have I rejected as being out of date, and better 
adapted for family use than to the general taste. What you 
see before you is unpretentious English fare, without kick- 
shaws, and with but scanty garnishing. But as palates differ 
with nationalities, and I am happy to number amongst my 
subscribers a fair sprinkling of all sorts, here and there will be 

found dishes prepared accordingly. Thus, my Irish friends 
will have their stew, my Scotch their haggis, while if Vater- 
landers have been more copiously catered for than others, 
the exuberance of the German sausage element must be 
excused by reason of the generous consideration which, I am 
informed by the editor of Punch, has been publicly 
accorded to that seasoned comestible. Parliamentary 
pabulum has not been omitted from the bill of fare, for 
it will be observed that several leaves have been taken from 
that ample volume, the Hansard-ciun-Qxxzgory cooking- 
book. The simple fare on which sporting men thrive while in 
training will be found near the end of the table (of contents, I 
hope) ; while if the Foresters and Druids miss their accus- 
tomed venison, all I can say is, that I have dressed my kid 
into the cunningest imitation I could manage. As to the 
potables, they are certainly neither Roederer, Moet, nor 
Cliquot, but the best gooseberry wine I could manufacture 
on the premises. If there should be discovered occasionally 
a smack of the prime juice of the grape — a " beaker of the 
warm south, with beaded bubble winking at the brim," 
the many entertainments I have had to attend in my various 
public capacities must be held accountable for the intrusions 
of the foreign flavour. The beer I can at any rate guarantee 
to be British, and I hope not such " small ale" as that 


craved after by Shakespeare's tinker when he awoke from 
his Bacchanalian revelries. Most of the dishes have been 
tasted before ; served up at different tables; many of them 
in Collins Street, by the Sporting Editor of the Austral- 
asian; some in Elizabeth Street, dressed in "Beacon's" 
best style; but the bulk of them have been placed on 
the mahogany of my friend Mr. Punch. There are a 
few entrees which have not yet had the covers removed, 
the flavour of which I hope may be to your liking. 

In conclusion, a good appetite, and that the most excel- 
lent digestion may wait upon it, with health on both, is one 
of the least of the good wishes of your greatly obliged 


Emerald Hill, October 1st, 1873. 


OME scattered thoughts thrown roughly into rhymes, 
In musing medleys made at many times, 
Some jinglxiig melody perchance may ring 
In simple strains among the songs I sing; 
Some sparks may flash from off the anvil's face, 
E'en smoothness, too, my verse may sometimes grace. 
A gleam of humour glow along one line, 
While pathos with the next may intertwine. 
But rude and rough my measures mostly flow, 
Formed in the smithy by the fire's fierce glow — 
Amidst the smoke, the noise, the clatt'ring din, 
That fills the forge's atmosphere within. 
' Mid clang of anvil, grating of the rasp, 
The hammer with the pen has filled my grasp 
Alternately. This uncongenial scene 
(No bright blue sky, no moonlight's silvery sheen) 
Is where the Muse has tempted me to try 
The little power I have to versify. 
No banks of Doon, no Avon's winding stream, 
No towering mountains pregnant with a theme \ 


No gorgeous island in the tropic seas, 

No blooming flowers nor sounds of waving trees ; 

No brilliant book-lore learning do I boast, 

For classic cloister ne'er my foot has cross'd ; 

No Tennysonian treasure do I bring, 

Nor in Swinburnian measure will I sing, 

Though rolling rhymes and sparkling streams of words 

May charm the senses in harmonious chords. 

Nor mine the master spirit which o'er Burns, 

Moore, Byron, Shelley (hallowing still their urns) 

Watched, and yet lingers. No, my humble strain 

Is couched in language of the plainest plain, 

The simple Saxon of my mother tongue 

Is all I bring to weave my modest song. 

If then my lines should lack a polished grace, 

If I shall fail to gain a standing place 

Among the sons of poesy and song, — ■ 

Or genuine bards, that great and gifted throng, — 

I am content to take my humble stand 

Beside the lesser lights. With horny hand 

Some " Thoughts of Home" I've penn'd as they occurred. 

On simple themes my Pegasus I've spurred : 

A trifling tribute to a poet's fame, 

A record of an actor's honoured name; 

Some "Village Memories" have found a place, 

And "Home Affections" I have tried to trace; 

On "Sports and Pastimes" I have had my say, 

And touched the "Current Topics" of the day. 

ff The (gzzaL.iri,t g abb leJl cot 
where th,e e/ie^nzit. traes st&nd 



Dunchurchy Warwickshire. 

lOr Y thoughts fly back to boyhood's early days, 
~*=2g~^ When youth's light heart within the breast beat free, 
When life's young morning, gilt with brightest rays 

Of joyous hope, and fearless liberty, 
Had never known the bitter cares of life 

Which we, poor pilgrims here on earth, must know 
As on we journey through this world of strife, 

Nor yet had proved the seeming friend a foe : 
Of that young time, what mem'ries crowd around 

My busy brain ; what fancies thickly come ! 
Again I tread the ancient school play-ground, 

Or shout in fancy still the harvest home. 

Fair village scenes, and village pastimes, hail ! 

My boyhood's early spirit greets you still ; 

B 2 


Once more I climb the uplands, roam the dale, 

And listen to the brooklet's babbling rill. 
The moonlit nights, the football's noisy bounds, 

The game at hockey on the slippery pond, 
The "twanging horn" at "big side" hare and hounds, 

Are vivid scenes and recollections fond. 
Then, busy Memory, aid me in my task, 

Exert thyself in strength, and be my guide 
Through days and scenes long past — no more I ask 

Than Truth and thee together at my side. 

The old village church, I remember it well, 

With its quaint looking tow'r, and the school 
Where my youthful companions and I learned to spell, 
Where we rushed to our places, and hurried pell mell ; 
Strict time was the schoolmaster's rule. 

I remember the elms, the machine-house, and cross, 

And the games that we there used to play, 
Tick, catch-'em, or marbles, or else pitch-and-toss 
With buttons, like gamesters ne'er heeding their loss, 
So long as we had them to pay. 

The old gabled cot, where the chestnut trees stand 

Which in youth I have climbed with delight, 
The smithy and smith with his huge brawny hand, 
The lurid red fire, round which youngsters would stand 
To tell tales on a cold winter's night. 

' The old Village Church' 


The old Lion's Close, with its willows and moat 

Half circling the orchard around, 
Its daisies, and cowslips, and green grassy coat, 
Its hedge-rows, where music poured forth from the throat 
Of the warbling throstle, whose sweet thrilling note 

Made my heart feel the magic of sound. 

The grange, and the lodge, Cawston House, and the Hall 

Where the lords of the village reside, 
The white-coated windmill, a land-mark to all, 
The straight blooming poplars, so graceful and tall, 

As like soldiers they stand side by side. 

The inn with its Crown, Mother Red Cap so sly, 

The Lion so rampant and red, 
The Sporting " Green Man" with his gun shouldered high, 
The monstrous Dun Cow, that was killed by great Guy, 

And the Bell, whose last sound is now dead. 

I remember the notes of the guard's merry horn 

(Ere the iron roads stretched through the land) 
With sounds of "bright chanticleer" hailing the morn, 
And loud on the echoes "tantivy" was borne 
As the coach roll'd along through the sand. 

And the old turnpike road, how my thoughts fondly cling 

To its hard metal surface ; though now 
In the bright golden land of Victoria I sing 
Of its elm-shaded paths,, and the musical ring 

Of the bells on the team-horses' brow. 


Of its closely trimm'd hedges, and walks kept so neat, 

Its beeches, its elms, and its firs, 
Which in avenues graceful o'ershadowing meet, 
Tho' lost to my sight, yet how gratefully sweet 

Are the thoughts which their memory stirs. 

How often at noon, from the midsummer's sun 

Have their boughs been a sweet welcome shade, 
Or, when strolling with friends, when the day's work was done, 
We have crossed their huge shadows which lay one by one 
Like giants asleep, while the moon sweetly shone, 
Unconscious of beauty she made. 

What scenes, too, were passed, on that road's winding track, 

In times which our own " Glorious Will" 
Has immortally pictured — when burly fat "Jack" 
With his troops marched along (scarce a rag to their back) 
Lean and lank towards Coventry's citadel black 

While he "larded" the earth down the hill. 

In fancy I'm rolling again o'er its face, 

Or enjoying a brisk morning run 
Where the pine-cone, frost-bitten and falling apace, 
Lies smother'd in beech leaves protecting its face 

From the glare of the winter's bright sun. 

Or standing once more on the church's old tower, 

O'er villages, hamlets, and lanes, 
From the far off Edge hills by famed Shuckburgh's Bower 
The eye roams to Danetree, that record of power, 

Of the might of victorious Danes. 


Then, glancing around, sees the city of spires, 

Flashing out on the dark wooded plain, 
Old Kenilworth, Stoneleigh, with Leamington Priors, 
And Warwick, bright gem among England's loved shires, 

Shall I e'er view thy turrets again? 

Shall I once more behold that most exquisite scene 

Which our own native poets have sung, 
Where the Leam gently winds through the willow-clad green, 
Where the Avon flows calmly, majestic, serene 
By mansion and castle ; its glittering sheen • 

Re-echoes the sounds that have rung 

From its moss-covered banks at the close of the day 

As shepherd and milkmaid have sped, 
Each warbling some ditty, some old country lay 
(The "Banks of Dundee" or a " Morning in May"), 

While housing the kine in the shed. 

The loud whistling waggoner joins in the strain, 

As his horses stroll lazily, where 
The shrill treble clink of the jingling chain 
With the herd's lowing bass, as they wind through the lane, 

Make discord harmonious appear. 

The hedges of hawthorn with woodbine entwined 

With freshness my memory greet, 
Nor can distance or space e'er erase from my mind 
The joyous impression and pleasure refined 
Of a morn's early walk, when their sides were all lined 

With wild flowers and dog-roses sweet. 


Inhaling the bean flower's fragrant perfume, 

Enriched with the scent of sweetbriar, 
See the bright orb of day with his glory illume 
The rich glowing East : hear the sky-lark resume 

His song mounting upward and higher. 

The autumn brings scenes which are dear to me now, 

The harvest, and fruit-laden trees, 
The ivy's green mantle on old oaken bough, 
Whose leaves richly tinted are murmuring now 
• In the wild, balmy, wandering breeze. 

The rude gusty blasts of a southerly wind 

In the genial clime where I write, 
Bring thoughts of old Christmas at home to my mind, 
With its mistletoe, holly, and yule-log, behind 

The bright fire on a keen frosty night. 

While the elder-wine simmers, the toast must be browned, 

Hark! the bells rouse the still midnight air, 
How my heart throbs as fancy re-echoes the sound 
Of that Triple Bob Major pealed forth all around 
From steeples and towers everywhere. 

Sweet village, endeared to my innermost soul, 
As through time's fading glass I look back, 
I see at a glance, as the years onward roll, 
Old friends disappear ere they reach the bright goal 
That ambition has shown on their track. 


While others glide onward by Fortune caressed, 

Care leaves them a bright cheerful face, 
Success crowns their efforts, they stand all confessed 
The dame's darling children, and being so blessed, 
Are content with their part in the race. 

A thousand other mem'ries rushing come : 
Visions of youth, of boyhood's early home, 
Scenes decked by touches of a magic wand, 
Spreading a halo in a distant land. 
The bustling village, in those busy times, 
The antique pedagogue, the hourly chimes, 
The scores of coaches, and the old post boys, 
The first of May with all its floral joys 
Of May poles dressed and ruddy Queens of May, 
Bedecked with flowers and clad in colours gay. 
The village wake, its sports and jocund fun, 
Its greasy pole and treacle-smothered bun, 
And women frantic racing for a gown, 
Or winning tea by playing u knock 'em down." 
The orange dipping and the jingling match, 
The finger-burning pence for those who'd catch. 
Sport crowds on sport till twilight ends the scene, 
And then away to dance upon the green, 
By golden floods of light from harvest moon, 
And all complain that pleasure ends so soon. 
We're severed now some sixteen thousand miles, 
But thought is mighty and at distance smiles. 


What space can terminate the mind's free range, 
Forbid the fancy thinking, there's no change? 
The rude old smithy occupies the spot 
It did of yore, the chestnut trees are not 
Removed, or withered : all is still the same, 
E'en to my playmates ready with their game, 
The cricket matches with* some dear old friends, 
Whose joyous shouting now in fancy blends 
With happy memories of those merry days, 
Enlivened with the light of pleasure's rays. 

Farewell, old friends, as fondly I recall 

Those happy times we ne'er may see again, 
I look around, and ask, where are ye all? 

Disbanded? Scattered o'er the earth's domain? 
Some have to India's hottest regions gone, 

Australia claims for denizens a few, 
Some plough the deep beneath the torrid zone, 

While others seek "fresh fields and pastures new." 
East, west, or north, where'er I turn mine eye 

I see the trace of friends, alive or dead \ 
One yielded up in death his latest sigh 

On Balaclava's plain; his spirit fled 
With hosts of others on that crimson field, 

Where rode the brave "Six Hundred" in their might, 
Who show'd the world that Britons never yield, 

And charged the Russian guns in desperate fight. — 
My heart warms kindly to that well-known spot 

I clung to ere I felt inclined to roam, 
Where long ago the rustic straw-thatched cot 

Was fondly cherished as my only home. 


No wish to stray nor thought of change had I, 

My world was all contained in that loved place, 
Till visions of a bluer, brighter sky 

Enthralled my senses, wafted o'er the space 
Of mighty waters — from Australian land, 

Destined to form a nation great to be, 
Whose creeks and rivers rich with golden sand, 

Whose fleecy harvests burthen every sea ; 
Its snowy quartz reefs send their treasures forth, 

Its vine-clad slopes are glistening far and near ; 
Rich in all precious gems from south to north, 

Its teeming wealth lies scattered everywhere. 
The luscious grape luxuriantly grows, 

The melting pine in richest hue is seen • 
Banana's clustering blossom softly blows 

In lands that claim their title from our Queen. 

From such a spot, henceforth to be my home, 
I say "farewell" to those I left behind. 
I breathe "farewell" reluctantly to some, 
But hope springs vig'rous in the human mind, 
And tells that in this fair and far off land 
(A land where every honest son of toil 
May by the might of his own horny hand 
Wring treasures from a fair and fertile soil), 
Freedom exists which England never knew, 
And plenty reigns with mild benignant sway, 
That every prospect wears a brighter hue, 
And points me to a more auspicious day. 

Melbotcme, 1858. 



[The year 1869 was prolific of many startling political events in the 
history of the colony. It also gave to the world Mr. Leland's amusing 
and popular work "Hans Breitmann's Ballads," an imitation of which 
has served as a vehicle for the conveyance of a little badinage on the 
current events of the day. The great bribery cases, the 'expulsion of 
two Members of Parliament, their re-election, the committal to the 
Melbourne Gaol of Messrs. Glass and Quarterman, and numerous inci- 
dents which will be familiar to most of my readers, have been touched 
upon in a way (not intended to be personally offensive, but) which will 
make them records of what actually has transpired in our midst. 

The same may be said of "Scenes in the Assembly," "Stranger in 
the House," &c. &c] 

NO. I. 

Hans Breitmann gooms to Melpoorn, 

Soom gurious dings to see; 
He gooms right shtraight from New York Shtate 

Agross de priny zea; 
Und fen he kits to Melpoorn, 

He likes id, you be pound — 
"Dis shoost der blace," der Breitmann say, 

"Vare bloonder 's to be vound." 

Hans Breitmann kits to Melpoorn, 

He likes der beoble moosh, 
He likes do see Herr U. Von Claash, 

Und on der bloonder roosh. 
Von Ettershang is shoost der poy — 

Oh let me on him case ; 


Oh ! show to me das lovely man, 
Shoosd led him me emprase. 

Hans Breitmann kits to Melpoorn; 

He leafs for Ballaratt, 
He hears der beobles all der dimes 

Say "Yones is shoost der ladt. 
Ve shents him to der Barleymindt, 

Ve gifs him plenty prass; 
He kits der shtone at Villiamsdown, 

Und gifs im to Von Claash." 

Hans Breitmann drafels all apout 

Dish gountree efery tay; 
He drafel poud pig Gollinge-shtreed 

To see vot beoplish say ; 
He drafel poud der Gorner, 

He gifes de ladisd noose; 
He dells em to der bapers, 

Und dey puds in what dey shoose. 

Hans Breitmann efery morning 

Goes round poudt auction mart ; 
He meets em pees und minishters. 

He gifs a treatful shtart, 
Von morning, mit his frient MacPain, 

In Herr Von Fraisher's room 
To see MacCullock's treatful form 

In ter tistance grantly loom. 


Der Breitmann pow bolitely, 

MacPain holdt out hish handt — 
"Goot morning, Mr. MacCullock, 

How do?" Oh den, how grandt 
Der crate MacCullock toorn afay, 

De haar oop rise on his het — 
"How dar you shpeak to me," he say, 

" MacPain, I coots you tet." 

Der Mr. Franshis next oop coom, 

Mit mild und pleashant vace; 
"Oh, Meester Shames MacPain," he say, 

"Vot teufel you prings tishgrace, 
Mit your tam'd gommiddee und your glause, 

Vhich censures Mac und I? 
Bei Gott, id ish un treatful ding!" 

Den Mac peginsh to gry. 

"Und am I shlighted py mein vriend? 

Und am I treeded so? 
Mein dendr hardt vill shoorly boorst, 

Mein preasht ish fillt mit voe, 
To dink dat ve, sooch poosom vriendts, 

Vor sooch a simble ding, 
Vrom dis dimes vorth moost nefar moore 

Ash poon combanions gling." 

Hans Breitmann goes to Barlymindt 
To see Yones dake ish seat; 


De beobles growd de callerie 

To kit dish mighdy dreat ; 
Dey roosh to see who pring him in 

To shake der Shpeaker's handt ; 
Dey dinks to see a shpecktakle 

So peaudiful und grandt. 

Dey vants to hear what Putters zay 

Poud delling liddle lies, 
Und Putters nefer shpoke a ford, 

Moosh to deir crate surprise. 
Und Mister Gope, das funny man, 

Say shoost such funny dings ; 
Der Shairman lofes him all der dimes, 

Und all der dalk he prings. 

Hans Breitmann, vhile in Barlymindt, 

Py shinks vos moosh confus't 
Do see Yones in valk mit himshelf. 

He vas nod indrotus't; 
He never shook der Shpeager's handt ; 

He shvears himselve, und den 
He round short dooms und dakes his sheadt 

Mit Minishterial men. 

Und all der dimes Yones never shpeage, 

Bud nodes dake fery vast ; 
" Der Yones is shoost de poy/' dey say, 

"To seddle oop ad lasht." 


He gifs em pack de pesht dey pring, 
He dalk shoost like a pook ; 

By donder, he's un defer shap, 
Der Breitmann like Irish look. 

Hans Breitmann read der babers : 

He likes vot beobles say 
Pout pripery and coorooption, 

He dinks it mighdy cay; 
How efery pody dell der druth 

Like anshels pure and goot; 
He dinks he'll shtop in Melpoorn, 

He likes ids liefely moot. 

Hans Breitmann likes dis city ; 

He likes der suburbs too ; 
He likes der goundry und der downs, 

Und vhat der beobles do. 
Und if der beobles like oldt Hans, 

By donder, he'll be proudt, 
Und dell em efery feek in Poonch, 

Der noose vots coing apoudt. 


NO. II. 

[Tells of the expulsion of Messrs. C. E. Jones and Butters — Mr. Jones 
at Ballarat — Reprimand of Mr. Bowman, and the appearance of 
Messrs. Glass and Quarterman at the bar of the House. ] 

Der Breitmann vash bleas'd moosh at vhot beobles zay, 

Pout vhot he vash wriding in Poonch d'oder tay, 

Vhen he dells apoud Puttors und Yones, und Von Claas, 

MacCullock und Franshis, und men of deir glass;' 

De beobles is bleas'd moosh peyond all pelief 

At Von Ettershang, und MacPain mit ish crief. 

Und der Breitmann goes indo himshelf all dese dimes 

Und he comes oud again mit dish poondle of rimes. 

Und he dells how MacCullock und Franshis kot riFd 
Apoud de dwelfth glause. Und how Breitmann he shimTd 
At Wrigson und Plair as dey vent on deir knees 
Und gry mit crate droples, "Oh, zur, iv you blease, 
Do vorgif us dese dimes ; ve vill nefer more zin, 
To offend der crate Mac ve moosht nefer pegin, 
For nefer vonce more vould der sun efer shine 
Victoria oopon shouldt MacCullock resine." 

Den de glause dey out kick vhich ofTented der Mac, 
Und abbly shtraight de rodt on to Yones's poor pack; 
Und to Putters ashe veil dey say, "Shoost you kit outl 
Vhot der teufels you vellers haf peen all apout? 
You gif und dakes money, you makes a crate pet 
Mit Bowman, und vhich he moost dremple vor yet. 



By dormer, a row vee'll oop kick mil you all ! 

My vord, vhat a town doomple — vhat a crate vail!" 

Dere ish von liddle veller der Breitmann likes moosh, 
Vor he dries on his sead der MacCullock to croosh ; 
Und he looks at de Shpeager, und vinks all de vhile ; 
Und he laughs mit his sides, und de mempers all shmile; 
Und he sits mit himshelf on te pench all alone; 
"Who gares?" gries der Vrasher. "Dis shild noombers von, 
Und vill shtay mit himshelf if no mate he gan kit ; 
Bei Gott, id dakes some dings to vrighden him yet !" 

Der Breitmann, he read how de Pallarat poys 
Roosh madly up Yones, amid shouding und noise; 
Und dat mighdy pig hall, vhich Brince Alfred tid puild, 
Vas mit Yones's subborders zoon vrantigly vhTd. 
Und he dells em in bickles a rodt he hash kot 
Vor Franshis und Schmidt, und dey'll zoon kit it hot; 
Und dat liddle crate memper vor Prighdon coom next 
On de lissd, vor his gonduct has Yones moosh perplexed. 

Und de poys dey shoud louder und louder vor choy, 

Und say — "Upkeep your pecker! Vee'll shtick to you, poy 

Vee'll shend you vonce more to der Barlymindt Haus; 

You're de veller vor us, you kot blenty ov nous, 

Und py shinks ve vill shend you, und shend you again, 

If again dey exbels you, dose Barlymindt men. 

Ash vor nine hoonderd bounds, you shall kit id, 'no vear;" 

Und dey shoud oud for Yones, und four hoonderd a year. 


Der Breitmann hash read vot der bapers all dell, 

Apoud Captain MacMahon und MacLellan ash veil; 

Und he reads poud MacKeen und der shmall Yarley Tyte; 

But he lofes men mit intellects bowerfully pright, 

Like some of dose mempers who shoud oud, '"Ear, 'ear" — 

Vhat mighdy crate statesmen dese men all abbear. 

Und if he ish pad at hish crammar, Gope zay, 

He's der teufel, you pet, at hish viggers soom tay. 

Der Breitmann has shoost peen to Barlymindt House, 
Und he lishens mit awe quite so shtill ash a mouse, 
Vhile der Shpeager in accends so derriply crand 
Dell Powmann hesh pound to kit crate rebrimandt. 
Und he zay, "I now do so, youVe peen naughty poy/ ; 
"All righd," dinks der Powmann, und shuckles mit choy, 
Vhile he down sids und shmiles, mighdy bleas'd you pe pound- 
But he don't gif de hosbidals dat vivty bound. 

, De dime now ish near vhen Schmidt soon kit hish vish, 
He kits rid of de shmall fry, now gooms de pig fish. 

I U. Claas und der Qvarterman, crin ash you vill, 
Hesh gaught you, my poys — de hooks shtick in your gill. 
De Sergeant he landsh you in hish liddle net — 
Id's no use to wriggle, afay you can't kit; 
Und he rups mit hish handts und looks bleasantly round, 
Vor shoost in von day he make von hoonderd bound. 

Vhen der Breitmann shees Claas at de vront of de par, 
Und der Quarterman too, how it oop coorl hish haar. 

c 2 


Vhen MacCullock he move dat to Vindle's dey coes, 
How den Cavan Tuffy he dalks und he plows ; 
Und he dells all de House how de Shquadders moost tie,. 
Ash de year seven ty-von id coome rabidly nigh; 
Und he zay, ve moosht teal in de shternest of vays, 
Und hide dem at vonce from de voorld's bleasand caze. 
Den dere gooms a ti vision, und beobles all learn, 
On de motion of Vrasher, de Haus moost atyoorn. 

♦*#£-< — 


[Relates how Messrs. Glass and^Quarterman are brought to the bar, and 
sentenced to Melbourne Gaol — The release of Mr. Glass on a writ 
of habeas — Messrs. Winter Brothers, Ronald, &c. &c., are sum- 
moned to appear — Mr. Vale resigns his seat to contest Ballarat 
with C. E. Jones — Mr. Quarterman still in gaol. ] 

Ho glear de drack vor Breitmann, und shtan roundt, my 

pully poys, 
He'sh coing to shpeak anoder shpeak, und dell vhat make a 

Apoud de down und all apoud de goundree eferyvhere; 
Pefore he'sh tun you kits soom vun, or elsh ids mighdy qveer. 
On Doorsday lasht der Breitmann reads von breddy liddle 

Id make so clad hish noble hardt mit morals vhich it deach ; 


Von Hikkinpoddom shpeage it, und he zay mit bleashand 

•'Revenge" vor droples vhich ve dake, our hardts vill make 

reyoice. * 

Das same nacht on, de brisners bofe goom drempling to de 

Potts tausends ! vhat a tretful sighd to see dem shake mit 

Der Shpeager shpeak — "Oh, U. Von Claas, Yohannes 

You're pound to go to Melpoorn Yail, shoost kid out vhen 

you can. 
You pripes to left, you pripes to right, dey zay you pripes all 

Und now shoost zay bofe vhat you like, vor cuildy you've 

peen vound." 
De brisners dells deir zorrow den, und zay how moosh dey 

Und de Shpeager zign de varrands, bud he qvide vorgit de 


Nexd tay Claas coes to Melpoorn Yail, und Qvardermann 

ash veil ; 
Dose qvarders dooshn't shuidt em moosh, und so Claas 

qvickly dell. 
Der gounsel, Irelandt, kits a writ to have hish garkiss oud; 
'De Yudge he zay — "Oh, Mr. Schmidt, vhat you have peen 



You shends men to de Melpoorn Yail, you nefer zay for vhat; 
Dese liddle carries veel shtop, my poy — dey're noding elsh 

put rot." 
Den §chmidt he shvear a mighdy shvear, he kits into a rage ; 
He zay de Yudges all moost tramp, ashe "vide Monday's 


So Claas he valks vrom Melpoorn Yail, und Qvardermann 

he shtays ; 
Der beobles shoud und shoud acain vhen next on Claas 

dey caze. 
Der Breitmann dinks id mighdy hard how von alone vill 

But br'aps he vaid dil Ettershang goes up to das zame shop, 
Und Vinder Broders, und Arkyle ash veil, goom drooping in : 
Schmidt kot hish hands on all of dese, he'sh pound to make 

em crin, 
So veil ash Ronald und Yames Vhide, und Mr. Anderson : 
Dey all gif prass to U. Von Claas, und Fengeance moost 

pe ton. 

On Duesday all dese brisners goom qvide ready for de par, 
De beobles vildly roosh de Haus, und groud de callery shtair. 
Gotts ! vhat a sell. MacCullock rose mit tignity und crace, 
Und zay — " De Haus moost shoost atyorn at voonce, und 

leaf de blace. 
Id's cot tu gif dose Yudges now soom bieces of ids mind, 
Id dakes soom liddle dimes to dink vhat action gooms pe- 



But Qvardermann ish shtill in Yail, und dere he'sh pound to 

Midout he shend betition in, or dakes de legal vay." 

De bapers dells how Putters cooms vrom Bortland pack 

How Fail coes up to Pallarat 'cainst Yones mit mighd und 

De dalk ish crand und peaudiful — der Teufel's not so plack 
Ash Yones, Fail zay; und hell pe tam'd if e'er dey shends 

Yones pack 
To Barleymindt, he'll leaf de House, but sdill shtick to hish 

screw : 
Der Fail's de poy vor Breitmann, vor he know shoost vhat 

to do. 
Gotts ! vhat a row de poys oop kicks ! Dey yell und say — 

"Kit out! 
Sit town! Go home! Shut oop! ; ' und vords most peaudiful 

no doubt. 

In Barleymindt on Venesday nacht, mit mempers in tepate, 
Der Breitmann vonders crately at vhat dey proadly shtate, 
Apoud de Haus und Qvardermann, who vants to leaf de yail, 
Und vhen dey ashk to kit him oud, dey dry, but simbly vail. 
Der Shpeager gall vor Qvardermann, de mempersh loudly 

Von memper rishes in hish sead, und mit a qvied chaff, 
He dell de Haus dat Qvardermann ish shtill in durance file, 
Und pegs dey'll led him oud akain und caushe hish vace to 



NO. IV. 

[Is a record of some curious things which occurred about this time. — Mr. 
Vale defeated for Ballarat — Strange conduct of the electors — Mr. 
Butters is returned for Portland — The Chief Secretary makes an 
announcement — The House adjourns for the report of the Privilege 
Committee. ] 

Der Breitmann zees zoom vunny dings 

Vhich habben efery tay; 
Dey vlash pefore hish fishion 

Den qvickly bass avay. 
Dey zeem shoost like a vairy dale, 

Dey goom und fanish shtraight, 
Dere's no ding makes him vonder, 

Pe it shmall or pe it crate. 

Dat bious Papthist Barson, 

Who blayed hish liddle came 
Zoom dime acoe in Gollins Shtreed, 

Gooms pack to do de zame. 
He kits de Bollydecknick; 

Dey roosh to hear him breach, 
He zay, "Ton't do vhat I haf done, 

But bragtice vhat I deach." 

He ish a nishe oldt shendlemans, 

De ladies lofe him so; 
He dells in vlowery langvidge, 

De vay dey're pound to go. 


Von dousand goom to hear him breach 

On Zoonday morning lasht; 
Den bound a veek is shoost hish shcrew, 

De ploonder gooms in vasht 

De efening of dat fery tay 

De growds goom rooshing in, 
Und, like de Shaker, Daylor zay — 

"You air a man of sin." 
Herr Breitmann likes de beoble 

Dat can zo zoon forgif ; 
Id's bleashand for Yames Daylor too, 

He dinks so, "you peliefe." 

Dose Pallaradt elegtors 

Haf dold a vunny dale ; 
Mit goot hardt abbles und pad eggs 

Dey belted Mr. Fail; 
Pud oud de cas und den "Boohoo" 

Und shoud oud in de tark — 
"Hooray for Yones und pripery! 

Und long lif Pogus Glark !" 

By donder, how dey roosh de down, 

On de elegshion tay — 
"Vote vor Fail, de shendleman," 

"Vor Yones vode und vare blay." 
"Who galled you Redan truckers? 

Who dells a sbideful dale? 
Who's cot a shplendid demper? 

Dat meek und shendle Fail." 


Gotts ! how de air in Melpoorn 

Ish imbregnated mit Yones : 
He vills each gourt und alley, 

You gan veel him on de shtones. 
Each gounding haus is full mit him ; 

In efery yoiner's shop 
De shafings doomble off to Yones, 

Till dey don't know vhen to shtop. 

De bublic haus preathes Yones und Fail,, 

De daverns reek of Claas • 
Und Gollins Shtreed's sho vull mit dem,. 

Id's mighdy hard to bass. 
Und efery von you meet, he zay, 

"Veil, vhat's de ladisd noose 
Of Yones or Fail? Vhich is de von 

Vest Pallaradt vill shoose?" 

Dill de delegram gooms vizzing, 

Along de tvanging vire, 
Und de beoble's ears are ringing, 

Deir hardts are all on vire ; 
Und dey hear dat Yones ish pack again,. 

Dat Fail ish left pehind, 
Oh, vhat a shtupid man he vash, 

Und so he's pound to vind. 

MacCullock dell de mempers, 

Vhen de Shp eager read de writ 
Vhich gooms vrom Bortland pack again,, 
* Vhat Yones ish pound to kit, 


Und Putters, too. So soon ash dey 

Haf kot de crate rebort 
Vrom de Briviledge Gommiddee, 

Dere's coing to pe more shport. 

Dey mean to gick em oud acain, 

Or piid dem in de yail 
Along mit Qvardermann und Claas, 

To kit refenge vor Fail. 
Von liddle ding der Breitmann zees — 

Id make hish hart vasht peat — 
MacGeen upon de Dreasury Pench 

Dries how he likes Fail's seadt. 

On Vednesday nacht de brisiners goom 

Not nefer to de par, 
Dey kit anoder resbite vhile 

De Haus brebare for var; 
Und dill nexd veek dey let 'em go, 

But dell ; em to look oud 
On Vednesday nexd dey'll all kit vits, 

Vhat vor dey've peen apoud. 


NO. V. 

,[Der Breitmann goes to Ballarat Steeple Chase Meeting, and relates a 
little fracas between Mr. C. Dyte and the barrister M'Dermott.] 

I dinks I'll go to Pallaratt, 

I hear der Breitmann zay ; 
Dere's coing to pe zom vim up dere, 

All in de racing vay. 
Dere's Pappler und dere's Inclezides, 

Und der crate Sir Villiam Ton ; 
Und de cray horse Puck vill pring ush luck, 

If ve bops te tollars on. 

If you coes up to Pallaratt, 

Says Yoeshyahbiggershkille, 
Pefore you kets safe pack acain, 

Of vun you kits your vill. 
Zoom ganditade your pound to meed 

Vor Mr. Fail's loshdt seadt — 
Br'aps Yoe de pellman mit hish ass, 

Vhile coing apoud de shtreedt. 

Id vash zo vine a morning 

Ash de beoples ever zeen, 
Vhen der Breitmann und his barty 

Vent to Towlin voresht creen, 
Und de sonnen shine vas peudiful, 

Und id vill Hans' hardt mit clee, 


Ash de beople trive und de beople ride 
All pound to see de shpree. 

How glorious vent der Breitmann oud 

Mit a zlashing goach und bair ; 
How cay de golours and de naks, 

Und de laties — Gotts ! how vair, 
Mit deir crate pig sheenongs und te locks 

All vloading town te pack, 
Zoom shesnut, zoom a colten prown, 

Und zoom so closhy plack. 

Id vash a side so lofely vhen 

De shoomperz dakes deir blace, 
Und dey meed de shtarders shcarled vlag, 

In de zelling sdeeble-shaze. 
Und Boortay vin, und de beoble shoud, 

Und de hoordle race nexd goom, 
Mid Elis voorst, but Veshdern veil, 

Vhich make der Breitmann clum. 

De drodders blease der Breitmann ash 

Dey goom out on te creen, 
In te pooty liddle zulkys, 

Id's a sighd vitvor a qveen 
To see das lofely cray mare Kate 

Pound cracefully along, 
Id's vordey of a boefs ben 

To zelabrade in zong. 


Bud she didn't vin, and Sir Villiam Ton 

Vash no vhere on te tay ; 
Und te Yeelong poys how dey bopped it on, 

Ash te Puck he roont afay. 
Vrom all de resht mit a doonderins ving 

Dere's a Deutscher all de vhile, 
Loogs crimly bleasend at de vun 

Und shuckles mit a shmile. 

For de sdeeble-shase vhat a sphlentit vield 

In golours cay oudshows ; 
Put Pappler vins mit de cratesd ease, 

Veil biloded py Powes. 
Bud hey vor Pallaratt again, 

Vhile yet de sonnen's pright, 
De vun is for der Breitmann dere 

Mid liddle Yarley Tyte. 

Mit a crate pig shtig how he valk apoud 

To preak M'Toormut's hedt, 
Vor de pooty langvidge vhich he shpeak, 

Und de lofely names he saidt. 
He zay, " You are a vishmonger !" 

Like " Hamled" in de play ; 
Und he doornd vhite, did de Yarley Tyte, 

" Your a plackguard !" he did zay. 

Und all de vhile dat afternoon, 
Undil de efening tide, 


Dey pring some talk like shendlemen, 

Und somedings else peside. 
M'Toormut crin, mit a lofely crin, 

And Yarley cot so vild ; 
He shvears he'll shplit him like a vish ; 

De parrishter shoost shmild. 

Dis Pallaratt's a shplentit blace, 

Id's cot a voorst-rate name, 
Dere's blenty bloonder, too, apoud, 

Vhich suits der Breitmann's came; 
Id makes so glad hish nople hardt, 

De bloonder eferyvhere • 
But if dey zends der Killissh pack, 

Bei Gott, dey are all dere. 


NO. VI. 

[Breitmann moralises on Mr. Vale's folly, as well as that of certain 
Government contractors — Relates the episode of poor Walter 
Montgomery's quarrel with the press. ] 

Der Breitmann dold dat Mr. Fail 

How shtubid he moosht pe 
To gif dat liddle pillet oop 

Mid ids nishe zalaree. 
Not all de braise de beobles gif 

Vill efer make amends 
Vor vivteen hoonderd bounds a year — 

Id's better ash den vriends. 


But b'raps he knows vhat hesh apoud, 

Sho veil ash Breitmaiin knows ; 
Und vhat dey'll to at Pallaradt 

Id's easy to shubbose. 
Dere's silber deapods, yugs und shpoons* 

Und somedings elshe peside; 
Voi Misdress Fail — a nishe pig boorse, 

Mit bloonder lin'd inside. / 

Ids not de came de Breitmann blays, 

He likes de bloonder veil, 
Und if MacCullock shends vor him, 

He'll dake a liddle shbell 
Ash Minishter of Railvays, 

Or Goosdoms all de zame: 
Id madders not to Breitmann — 

Eider vill shuid hish came. 

But who's to pe Commissioner, 

Inshtead ov Mr. Fail? 
Ish Marklashking de gooming man, 

Mit Sunkumling's long dail? 
Ish Villyvilson or Macgeen, 

Or Perry vrom Yeelong? 
Der Breitmann dinks he knows de man,, 

Vill crace nexd veek hish zong. 

Some voolish men gondrackors 
(Oh, vhat a shtubid drick !) 


Have vaided on de Dreasurer 

(Deir headts ish fery thick), 
To ashk him vor some money pack. 

It makes der Breitmann laugh 
To hear MacCullock dell em, " Dis 

Old pird's not gaught mit shaaf. 

"Ton't you vish you may kit it, 

Id's breddy blain dat's so; 
Bud 'Not vor Yoseph;' Fm de shild 

Dat's aple to zay 'No:' 
I dells you ' No' a doiisand dimes ! 

Vhat plockheadts you moosht pe, 
To goom mit your gomblaints und vants r 

Und dell 'em all to me." 

Ye Dragick und ye Gomick are 

Exbegted on von tay, 
But ye Dragick goometh all alone, 

Und kits safe in de Pay; 
Vhen soosh a shplentit barty 

Vend down oopon de bier, 
To pit him velcome voonce acain, 

To hail him mit a sheer. 

Dere's Margus Glarke und Tafit Plair, 

Und Yakes, und Holowfurnees, 
Mit parrishders und etitors, 

Und blenty ov attornies. 
Gott ! vhat a vine resepshion 

Vhen he shtepp'd oopon de shore; 


Und Tafit gry mit shouds ov yoy, 
"Goom to my arms vonce more." 

Den Valter vly to Margus, 

Und zay "My own tear poy, 
To meed you here vonce more, you know, 

Hash vill'd my zoul mit yoy. 
Dose liddle ledders vhich I wrighd, 

I dinks you vill forgif ; 
Und ve de pesht ov vriends shall pe 

Zo long ash ve shall lif." 

Id vash un moshd avveckding sighd 

To zee deshe glefar men, 
Ye Dragick und ye Griddick, meed 

Nefar to bart acain. 
Der Breitmann veep mit dears ov yoy, 

Und all de beobles round 
Bool'd oud deir bocket-hankerchiefs, 

Und dears tropp'd on de cround. 

Bud all de lawyers doom afay, 

Dey dinks dey haf peen zold; 
Dey dinks to kit sobm bloonder dere, 

Soom silfer und soom'cold. 
De parrishters mit oop-doorn'd nose, 

Valk shpeetily afay; 
Und shvears dey haf peen sheated 

Ov deir priefs, mit all de pay. 


Now, ishn't dish moosh petter^ash 

Dese qvarrels und dis var, 
Vhich in de bapers all de dimes 

Our indiyestions mar ? 
Ash all retire und dake a trink, 

Und Valter galls a gurse on 
Hish vlowing locks iv he vails oud 

Acain mit dish "young berson." 

Der Breitmann vinish mit a vord 

To Dragick und to Griddick — 
Ton't do acain soosh voolish dings, 

Und ton't pe zo shplenidick. 
You ought to pe de pesht ov vriendts, 

Tvould make our hardts zo clad ; 
Der Breitmann den vould lay "Long Odds" 

J Cainst Hamled peing mad. 

d 2 



[Shows how Mr. Vale, having been defeated by C. E. Jones, his con- 
stituents console him by a soiree, at which his late colleagues are 
conspicuous by their absence. Breitmann expresses his astonishment 


Der Breitmann hash lately peen in a tite blace, 

Und ish now coing to shtate fery shortly de gace. 

He vinds himshelf zeated a short dime ago 

At a vine Abendessen mit Purtt, Fail, und Co. ; 

Mit soom doorkies und hens, und soom bies vhich is nice, 

Bodadoes und yellies, und buddings of rice, 

Mit peer made mit yinger, mit Yorkshire pig hams, 

Mit goffee und dea, mit blum buddings und yams; 

Dere vash pig silber deabods, und shpoons shoost de same, 

Und strahlend mit peauty de laties all game. 

Und de shendlemens doo — vhat a mixdure vas dere, 

De Referend Botter und Referend Plair, 

Mit de Shalmers und Dafeys, de Pakers und Toanes, 

Mit Russell, M.P., und de crate Goffey Yones. 

But der Breitmann in fain sought MacCullock und Grant, 

Und dat Yeorge Hickinpoddom greated a vant ; 

Der Schmidts und de Kasee, und Zoolifan too, 

Vere remarked py deir apsence py more ash a few. 

Der Breitmann he zits mit himshelve all alone, 

A trinking zwei lager vrom pottles ov shtone. 

Ash he schvigs off de peer und looks gaushously roundt, 

No Tuffy, no Yellows, ish dere to be voundt ; 


Und de Gillies ish absent — pud strahlig und pright 
He shbies in de gorner de shmall Yarley Tyte. 
Den he rothen mit zhame, den mit anger doom bale 
Dat not von ob hish golleagues subborts Mr. Fail. 


[Is miscellaneous, and tells the news of the week. Breitmann visits 
the Weston and Hussey troupe, and describes his delight] 


Die neues vhich der Breitmann vash hear all de veek, 
Abbals him so moosh dat he hardly can shpeak. 
Vrom te Landt Pill debate, to die ingoming mail 
Efents zeem to bass like a terrible dale; 
Vhile Grant ish debigted ash lord of de zoil, 
M'Pain und de shqvadders are in a doormoil. 
Dere's a fery long sbeech from der Yeorge Paton Smith, 
But id vanted de element beoples gall pith. 
Dere's te night of tepate vor te whole of te Macks, 
In de dime of de Haus dey are pound to go shnecks. 
Den oud gooms der Longmore mit cay bleasand larks, 
Und in valks a shtinger to all de landt sharks. 
Dere is vhat liddle Powman hash ton mit te prass, 
Vhich he kits from te Putters, und Putters vrom Claas. 
Dere's te man vho hash vail apoud seventy veet high, 
Und de bapers all dell ash he ton't mean to die : 


Yet dey pick oop de bieces und dake em avay, 

To de Hoshbidal vards, vhile he shmile und look cay. 

Dere's de neues py te mail pout te gifts ov de Brince, 

Und te motion vhich Longmore gif nodice ov since, 

Apoud Yoe Dhomson's bin, und de breshends all round, 

Vor vhich der Yon Pull moost bay dree dousand bound. 

Dere's te men who rop panks, und a pigamished doo ; 

Dere is Hussey und Kelly, und das vunny grew. 

Gotts ! how de old Breitmann he laugh und he crin 

At das Veshdon's qveer yarns vhich he nighdly can shpin. 

In te colden-shoe tance vhat a Measure he veels, 

Ash dey shtamp mit deir does und dey glank mit deir heels ; 

Shoost lik a masheen bofe deir leeks moof ash von, 

Und te beoples encore ash te tanshing is ton ; 

While de yokes of de gorner-men make him sho clad, 

Dill he shcarcely can shtop, und he dinks he'll go mad. 

Dake der Breitmann's atfice iv you vants a coot laugh, 

Shoost fisit dat hall and hear dem vellers shafif. 


NO. IX. 

[Is devoted to the Land Bill of 1869. Breitmann is desirous of seeing 
it passed ; he refers to a few of the characteristic speeches of hon. 
members, and alludes to the Miller business.] 

Die Landt Pill ish te pill dey say vhich makes die beoples 

clad ; 
Pud vhen vill id be ofer ? vor id makes der Breitmann pad, 
To hear soosh fery long-made sbeech like das from Yames 

Of all te nople zenators among vhich Breitmann' s peen, 
Dere's none like von vrom Ararat — de noblest of dem all. 
Gotts ! how he make de beoples laugh mitin d' Assembly Hall ! 
He zay he'll keep a Minishder of Landts to gall hish own, 
Mit Cillees tresht in dartan plaid to tanshe all oop und town. 
De glan M'Coolloch dey moosht be, die dune be Shimmey- 

To vhich dey tanshe all roundt apoud. He zay he alsho vant 
Vhen he ish hanged oop py te neck — if soosh a ding shall pe — 
To kit his zendence vrom a yudge, und tie reshpectaply. 
In Barlymindt on Duestay nighd how peudivul id vas, 
Vhen eforypody in de Haus vash ledding oud te cas, 
Und " You're another" vash te vord vent vlying all aroundt : 
Soom scenes lik dis, der Breitmann dinks, is rarely to pe 

Vhen EfTerhardt he dells about soom vree selegtor's wrong, 
Und Vranshis dells de shgvadder's voes in langvidge breddy 

shtrong ; 


But den he dells te wrong dale voorst, und comes back to 

Und so de Shbeaker let him make hish liddle sbeech acain ; 
Vhile all de dimes — " You dell a lie!''' "It's valse — I'll broove 

it too," 
Ish heardt vrom Longmore und vrom Crant. Dere ish a 

crate to do 
Mit Shtutt und Millerr all apoudt soom ledders vhich dey 

Das Landt Pill ish te gause ov all, mid b'raps a liddle shpide. 
Zoom dimes next year der Breitmann dinks de Land Pill 

vill be ton ; 
It seems to him at breshent dat der fun has shoost pecoon, 
Vor efery night dere's zoomdings vresh, some crievance vants 

Und all de dimes it zeems to him de goundry's in a mess. 
Iv Breitmann had hish vill mit you poldt legislators dere, 
He make you bass id breddy qvick, or elshe id's mighdy 

qveer ; 
Doom to mit all your might und main, und vinish id off 

handt — 
Der Breitmann's cot hish eye oopon a shplendid biece of 



NO. X. 

£Is a passage at arms between Messrs. K. and M'K.] 

Dere's noding blease Breitmann 

Dese fery long dimes, 
Like Schnitzerl's felosobede, 

Shpoke ov mit rimes. 
He's bleased dat hish proder 

Hash doomed bolidition, 
To petter hish vordune 

And ment hish bosition. 

Pud he'd moosh pedder goom 

To dis Barlymint here, 
Iv he vants to kit vun 

Id quide soon vill abbear. 
Likes das ve vas kit 

Vrom M'Geen und M. L., 
Ash dey shbeak apoud acdors 

And lawyersh sho veil. 

And Mack he dells Ging, 

He may shtant on hish het 
Iv he likes, vor a half-benny, 

Dil he ish half tet 
Or plack in te face : 

Pud id ish fery wrong 
To dell how he advertize 

Pushnissh zo shtrong. 


Den Ging he kits ril'd, 

And at boor M'Gean's headt 
He hoorls a quodation, 

Ash Shagesbear hash saidt — 
" De moundain has prought vordt 

Von fery liddle mous," 
And he looks a pad " Hamlet" 

Pevore a boor house. 

Den mit wrath he kits oop, 

And mit rage dears hish hair, 
And town sids acain, 

Gryin loudly, " Shair, shair." 
Pud M'Geen he looks bleas'd, 

Vor he'sh ton a coot ding — 
Cot a sheap advertishemend 

Ad der gosht ov der Ging. 


NO. XI. 

[Alludes to the second part of Mr. Leland's Hans Breitmann, in 
which Hans has turned politician — The demand made by America in 
re the Alabama claims — Breitmann takes his leave, and offers a few 
words of advice to the Legislature to pass the Land Bill.] 


Der dime hash arrifte vhen der Breitmann moost bart 
Vrom hish many gind vriendts mit te crief in hish hardt, 
In daking hish lebewohl, in zaying atieu, 
To hish vriendt Mishder Boonch, how hish poozom's bierc'd 

Vhen hish Lebensgeschichte vill pe all wridden town 
By soom crate Bucherschreiber, id den vill pe voun 
Vot a crate Bucherfreund hash te oldt veller peen, 
How tearly he lof d all te Buchs vhot he'sh zeen ; 
Vhich haf goom vrom de Triibner righd ofer te sea. 
In dish gross Korperwelt id ish bleasand to zee 
Zoom beobles telight moosh in wriding de pooks 
Vhich dells how te voorldt in Ameriga looks : 
And te pook vhich hash ladely bleasdt Breitmann te mosht y 
He kits vrom hish vriend Mishder Lelant, py bosht \ 
Vor id dells all apoud Schnitzerl's feelosobede, 
And how in dem bolidicks Breitmann succeed ; 
Das sbeech vhich he kifs ish qvide voordy ov Yones, 
Zo bowervul te langvidge, so bleashand te dones. 
Gotts ! what a dall beobles dose Mericans are ! 
Ve learn py te mail dey're brebaring vor var. 



Vhat a motesht reqvest, doo, dey now coolly make, 
Shoost fimf hoonderd millions dey're villing to dake ; 
Pesides, dey vant Canada in, to make veight — 
Id makes vor der Union von nishe liddle shtate, 
Mit its vier million beobles. Id not matters moosh, 
Dey coot dake all der plue noses too ad a boosh. 
But Hans dinks Yon Pool vill vandt soomdings to zay 
Pevore he acrees in das offhantet vay. 
He'sh fery coote-nadur'd, und vants to act vair ; 
In fact, he ish ready to "hact on de shqvare," 
Und do vhat ish broper mit all ov te voorld ; 
Pud das Sumner ish riFd, und hish fengeance ish hoorld 
At te Pritishers' hets. Like de doonder he'll trop, 
Und oop kick a row, shlog em all on te kop. 
Atieu ! Hans ish off vor a fery long dime, 
Und zays in te parting, varefell, qvide sooblhime. 
He ish sick mit tee voorld, mit de beoples ash veil, 
Und ish coing to retire, und vill dake a long shpeli. 
He hash cot coot atfice vrom a vriendt te lasht veek, 
Und ish now coing to dake id, und vont acain shbeak — 
Ad least mit te rimes. So voonce more, vriends, atieu ! 
Old Hans hash peen bleased, und he hobes he'sh bleas'd 
P.S. — Shoost von vord in gonclusion — he pegs 
To make von opzerfation vhile oop on hish leeks. 
Soosh a nice lifely scene vhat dake blace de lashd nighdt 
Ad de Barlymint Haus, mit dose zenadors prighdt ! 
Oh, de shouding was awvul, de langvidge bolidte, 
Knockin' shpots off de Breitmann, almost iv not qvidte ; 
Und makes him kit ret all de dime he veels vhidte; 


\sh dey shcoldt von anoder mit main und mit mighdt. 

Deres te memper vor Brighdon und Gaptain MacMayhon, 

Qnd de Bosht-Masder-Sheneral, doo, hash his zay on 

Te soopyect, vhich vhen it ish ofer und ton, 

Makes em zay, " Vhat der teufels ve're dalking upon?" 

A.d te rade vhich dey coes mit das Landt Pill along, 

Dere '11 pe dime vor anoder boedical zong 

Apoud Ghristmas nex'd year, or soom dime aftervord, 

Vhen te beoples ish tired und te mempers ish pored. 

Das Pill shtops te vay — led id bass iv you blease, 

Ish te Breitmann's last vords to you, town on hish knees. 

[Written August, 1869. Land Bill passed November 29th, same 


[Breitmann appears with the "Flying Squadron" — Change of Mi- 
nistry, "Macpherson gets in, and M'Culloch goes out" — Difference 
of appearance of Treasury benches — Christmas drawing nigh — End 
of the longest session of Parliament on record — Hans advises.] 

Voonce more pack to Melpoorn Hans Breitmann hash gome,. 
Mit te shqadtron vhat plies oe'r te pird's ocean home ■ 
Put vhile he ish apsend sdrange dings goom apoud, 
Mackvairshen kits in und Mackcoolock kits oud ; 
Und de Gaseys und Schmits aer no moer to pe zeen 
On de Dreasury pench, vhare dey voonce look'd zerene. 
Montgomery leafs und Herr Bandmann arrifes, 
Und de Barleymindt seems to haf ninedy-nine lifes. 


How ve miss dat tebortment vhich Soolifan showed 

Vhen he rose vrom ish zeadt vhere humilidy glowed ; 

In hish mildt manly poosom no bride gould pe vound; 

Should dare be so ad voonce he voold make a pig vound, 

Und led all te plood vrom hish pody co vree. 

He ish gone; und te vorm of Yon Dhomas ve see 

Py te side ov Herr Gohen look bleasantly roundt; ' 

He ish bleased vhen he dinks ov te shcrew, you pe poundt; 

Now te bloonder ish shared py a tifferent lot, 

Since te atfent of Rolfe und since Pyrne's liddle plot. 

Dose Gollingwood poys dey haf sendt Mr. Fail 

De shendle oond gourteous, to make a long dale, 

Pud dey dold Mr. Reefes he hash pedder shtan roundt — 

Gotts, vhat a vine beoples in Gollingwood's voundt. 

Das memper vor Prighdon he out gooms acain, 

Mit soom crade resolutions ; id seems mighdy blain, 

Ash he puds id do us, ve air noding pud zlaifes, 

Dat Pridain roole 00s like she roole te pig vaifes. 

Ad Crowlands id vas vhere Herr Pyrne kits te sack, 

Und dey sents Mr. Rolfe to de Barleymindt pack. 

Hans vants to look roundt shoost vor more ash a veek 

Pefore he gooms oudt mit anoder crate shpeak. 

In te meandime he offers soom voords of atfice 

To dose crate legisladors, vhich oughd to suffice 

To make dem ad voonce to deir toodies broceed, 

Und bass de subblies vhich de beoples ail need. 

Vhat pisness dey makes vor dis den monts ash more, 

Mit motions py tousands, und pills py te shcore, 

Dere's nodings to see vor te whole ov te dime, 

Vhich dey vasde mit der yabber oon bathos sooplime. 


•* You much pedder co if te pisness you shirk, 
If no ding pud dalk dakes de blace ov te voork ; 
Vhile Ghristmas ish here oon noding hash peen tone, 
Id's dime breddy qvick vor you all to pe gone. 
Hans looks te nexd veek to see vhat you vill to ; 
He is vatching das pill which vill gif you a shcrew; 
Put blease do make hasde oond kit oud ov te fay, 
Make blenty of pisness mit moosh less to zay; 
Und den you shall kit vrom te beoples crate braise, 
Und Hans vill empalm you in von of hish lays." 


[Mr. Macpherson accepts office as Minister of Lands under Sir J. 
M'Culloch, in April, 1870 — Great indignation — Breitmann re- 
appears, and expects to "get some fun" — Charles Mathews has 
arrived, and is delighting the people of Melbourne by his inimitable 
acting — A row at the Haymarket Theatre.] 

11 Goom, rouse oop, rouse oop, Breitmann/' 

I hear de beobles say, 
" Und wride zoom boems vonce acain, 

Ash in te vormer tay. 
Long dimes you haf peen idle 

Und no ting has peen seen 
Ov zong or boem vrom yoor ben, 

Like vhat dere voonce hash peen." 


Der Breitman rouses oop voonce more, 

All reaty vor te vun 
Vhich in te Barlymindt nexd veek, 

Is sure to pe pegun. 
Vhen, mit Sir Yames, Macphairshon gooms 

Ash Minishder of Landts ; 
Gotts ! vhat a tressing town he kits 

Vrom Mr. Fail's vair handts. 

Den vont te Schmidts und Gaseys all 

Pe vildt to see him dere? 
Und Perry mit a foice qvite mildt 

Vill rendt de ampient air. 
Den Longmore und te burly Mac 

Vill kif him vits, I kuess ; 
I shall not like his zhoes to vill 

Vor half hish schrew or less. 

Since last dime vhat I wride do you, 

Soom gurious dings dake blace. 
In bolitics und blay houses 

Ve see a shange of vase. 
Dere's Yarley Mathews at te Royal 

(Der Breitman's clad he's goom) ; 
He's kot te same oldt sassy style 

He alius had tu hum. 

Der Breitmann dake his handt-shoe oft) 
Und shakes so varm te handt ; 


" Du Schnellzungig, du rare oldt poy, 

Wilkomm to dies neu landt ; 
Und vhile der Breitmann hash te pow'r 

To co und see you blay, 
He'll freely bop two shillings town, 

Und nefer crudge to pay." 

Te pattle at te Haymarket — 

All mit te men und togs, 
Te parricades, te ropes, und shtrings, 

Te tummies, and te logs, 
Haf made zoom vim und ploot to vly, 

Und voork vor lawyers too; 
Dey likes dese dings, dey're coot vor drade, 

Und pully vor das crew. 


[The 10th May, 1870 — Sir James M'Culloch is sworn in as Chief 
Secretary, Mr. M'Pherson as Minister of Lands — Breitmann 
describes the scene in the House — Great disappointment — No row — 
Mr. Watkins speaks — Breitmann subsides.] 

Der Breitman hash been to die Ba^leymindt Haus, 
Shoost to see how Sir Yames und hish vriends met der rows, 
Vhich are oop kickt around on M'Phairshon's accound, 
Bei ursache ov Mac haben halten hish cround. 


Dere is noding he's seen has bleas'd Breitmann so moosh 

Ash der crade lod ov beobles who matly so roosh, 

Exbegting to hear Mr. Fail make a sbeech, 

Pud he's not in te humour dis tay vor to breach. 

How shtill is de air, and how hoosh'd is te noize, 

Ov stattlich Sir Yames, und die whole ov hish poys. 

So galm ish die blace you can hear efery sound, 

Vhile Miggie so geen ash a hawk he looks round. 

Dey're in svorn und town dey sid on te vrond seat, 

Vhile sitzen pehind, vhad a growd deir eyes creet! 

Dere's Vrazer, und Tavis, M'Caw, und de rest 

Ov deir sdanchest subborders, all looking deir pest • 

Und oop in de gorner a growd shoost so pig. 

Vhile Sir Vransis looks crandtly vrom oonder hish vig, 

Und now he galls oud " Order, Order," qvide blain, 

So die Barleymindt pisness pekins voonce acain. 

Sir Yames makes a fery small sbeech to pegin; 

He dells em he hopes deir mitwurking to win. 

Die callery ish growded vich holts all die bress 

Mit editors, all fery eager, I kuess, 

To lishten to vords vhich Sir Yames haf to zay 

On die qvesdion avvecding die man of die tay, 

M'Phairshon : who gooms in a new sood ov glose. 

Wie stattlich Sir Yames in hish blace now oop rose, 

Und dold all die Haus he vas coing to pe prief, 

So zoon from deir lapors dey kits a relief. 

Und vhile in rescess, mit die rest of hish vriends, 

Dey vill bogged die schrew, vhich so bleasantly tends 

To make happy dose men who are luggy enough 

To kit into die Mirrisdry — dey' re oop to snuff. 


How eager now are all die onlookers dere ; 

How anxious dey look for G. P. to abbear 

Vor die row to pegin; pud id's blain to pe seen 

G. P. is nod gooming, und vhere ish M'Geen? 

Wie horen to Vadkins te row hash pegun; 

All roop now deir handts, dere vill zoon pe zome vun ; 

Pud he off plows die sdeam in so fery shord dime 

Mit some small intignations for Mac's heinous grime. 


JIT F e'er within Tasmania's lovely isle 
^ A spot is found, whose health-restoring power 
Can give thee back thy pristine blooming smile, 
And strength renew — 'twill bid me bless the hour 
That parted us and tore thee from my arms 

To seek what here so long has been denied : 
'Twill bid me hope, dispel my sad alarms, 

And once again I'll clasp thee as my bride — - 
My own dear Bess, my faithful, loving wife 

(Whose absence every day I now deplore) — 
In close embrace. Oh, ecstacy of life ! 

To hug thee in these brawny arms once more. 

Dear Liz, believe, each morn at breakfast time 

I miss thy form; thy dear, familiar voice 
Is now unheard. When sounds the evening chime 

The step is still, which made my heart rejoice. 
No kiss to greet me on my safe return — 

No " Hubby, dear, how are you?" meets my ear— 
I miss the welcome, giv'n in words that burn — 

The glad wife's joy to see her husband near. 


I miss the fond farewell, the kind good-night, 
The gleam of love that used to bless my sight ; 
Those raven tresses and the sparkling eyes 
Are gone — yet present to my bosom's sighs ; 
The old room still presents no altered face ; 
The small round stand, the watch's beaded case, 
The mirror's face, which once reflected thine, 
Each morn recalls thee, while reflecting mine. 
Auld Robin Gray still hangs upon the wall, 
That fierce young warrior, too, is there, and all 
The little nick-nacks of my married life — 
Emblems of love, may they ne'er witness strife. 
The rose blush blossoms in our small parterre, 
The evening primrose woos the midnight air, 
The red geranium twines the fence along 
And mingles leaves the passion flowers among, 
Whose staring petals court the glare of day 
Like woman decked in gaudiest array. 
Red Roger crows and struts just as of old; 
The bantam's still within his prison fold; 
The poor old cat, whose purring brings to mind 
The loss of one who e'er to her was kind ; 
Rover still mounts upon his two hind legs, 
With quaint, imploring look he stands and begs, 
Writhes his long back and shakes his shaggy hair, 
Makes the rude plank his hard and constant lair; 
And Dolly, with her sleek and glossy skin, 
Her ears, thrown back, with fierce, ferocious grin 
Chases old Hicks, and smiling seems to say, 
Would mistress like to have a drive to day? 


Dear Minnie, too, whose brown and smiling face 

And jocund laugh e'en tries to fill thy place, 

And so by kindness and attention prove 

How she appreciates a sister's love. 

Lilly the fair, with lithe and agile form — 

Her stoic mind is proof 'gainst any storm, 

Her thousand questions and old-fashioned ways 

Still bring thee to my mind in all she says. 

The hushed piano marks thy absence too : 

Its silent notes thy presence seem to woo. 

Whene'er I gaze upon its closed down case 

I long with ardour to behold thy face, 

To see thy fingers rattle o'er its keys, 

And listen to sweet sounds which always please — 

To welcome round our own domestic hearth, 

In social converse or in harmless mirth, 

Those whom we love — the friends of early days, 

Who mourn thee absent while they speak thy praise. 

We miss thee now from thy accustomed seat; 

The rocking-chair is vacant when we meet. 

But, Dear old Liz is echoed everywhere \ 

By one and all; and many an earnest prayer > 

Is offered up, that God will kindly spare / 

(And bless with health a future bright career 

Of usefulness) yourself the sick to cheer. 

May each returning year bring peace and love, 

And health restored a holy blessing prove. 



A willow waves on a garden mound, 

I saw it planted ; Fve seen it grow 
Till it shades a spacious plot of ground, 

And a thousand branches crown its brow. 
And years have passed as Fve watched it blow 

And shed its leaves, from year to year, 
While the young have gone where we all must go, 

Yet the aged still are lingering here. 

On its bended boughs the sparrows twit, 

The minah cackles his noisy notes, 
And the tiny wrens demurely sit 

In the brilliant hues of their crimson throats ; 
I've watched them oft through my window pane, 

Have seen the swallows go skimming by, 
Their white breasts bared to the wind and rain, 

Or floating aloft in the bright blue sky. 

Through my window pane I have seen the sun, 

When his glories tinged the eastern peaks, 
The southern cross in its nightly run, 

And the grand aurora's radiant streaks 
'Neath the deep deep blue of a southern sky, 

As I've lain and looked through my window pane; 
I have seen the light scud hurry by 

And heard the plash of the western rain. 


The south wind roared at my window pane, 

The lightning flashed through the thunder cloud, 
And fiercer the gusts swept back again, 

And still more brilliant the lightning showed. 
• Even thus is the thread of human life 

En woven with sunshine, clouds, and storm, 
While joys and pleasures are mix'd with strife 

And troubles and care in every form. 

My window pane shows the willow bare, 

With its leafless boughs, its rough brown stem. 
Ere a little while it will shine as fair 

In its bright green garb as an emerald gem; 
And though to-day we are quite cast down, 

And bare as the willow's branches seem, 
We'll meet with courage the world's cold frown, 

And stem the force of a life's rough stream. 

jf7ine, 1872. 



When prostrate with sickness and writhing in pain, 

When burning with fever and parched up by thirst, 
When fancies most hideous were thronging my brain, 

When shapes met my vision like demons accurst, 
One form was e'er present, one hand cooled my brow, 

One watcher was there, though the rest might be gone, 
One sentence was spoken, I hear it e'en now — 

'Twas this, " Tell me what can I do for you, John !" 

Through long dreary nights, as she watched by my side, 

Each wish, though but whispered, was caught by her ear, 
And prompt to fulfil it she'd noiselessly glide 

From chamber to chamber; yet always seemed near, 
My pillow to smoothe, or my thirst to allay. 

When hov'ring in anguish between death and life. 
She then was my comfort, my solace and stay — 

The patient, devoted, affectionate Wife. 

When peevish impatience within me arose, 

No murmur e'er came from her kind loving heart ; 
When sleep had prevailed on her eyelids to close, 

How lightly she'd doze, and awake with a start, 
(If the sound of a murmur should break on her ear 

From the form which her heart was all centred upon,) 
And gently breathe forth, in a whisper most clear, 

The words, " Tell me what can I do for you, John!" 


When danger was over (the crisis quite past), 

Strength slowly returned to this poor wasted frame, 
How anxious the looks she would furtively cast • 

What wife-like devotion she showed still the same ! 
No flagging of spirit, no shrinking was there, 

Her duty as nurse was most lovingly done, 
Each want was forestalled, though I often could hear 

The words, " Tell me what can I do for you, John !" 


Died February 13th, 1872. 

Another veteran vanished from the stage. 

The curtain drops — the actor disappears. 
Another chapter in life's changeful page 

Discloses mourners weeping bitter tears. 
Hushed is the pathos — silent now that laugh 

" That used to set the audience in a roar/' 
Vanished the wit, the pun, the pleasant chaff, 

The cheery voice that we shall hear no more. 
Rogers, old friend, when standing by thy grave 

What hosts of memories came crowding round 
Me, thick as leaves which on the cypress wave 

Whose branches sigh above the sacred ground. 
Full twenty years I've watched thy artist life — 

As long I've known thee as the trusted friend, 


Struggling most manfully with care and strife, 

Fighting life's bitter battle to the end. 
How shall thy place be filled ? Who'll take thy part 

When arch Thalia makes the stage her home ? 
Melpomene, through thee, has touched the heart, 

And caused the gushing tears to freely come. 
Grandfather Whitehead walks before me now; 

Sir Peter Teazle stands in bold relief; 
Sir Anthony appears with threatening brow, 

Contrasting strongly with Luke Fielding's grief. 
The pampered Sybarite e'er found in thee 

A true exponent ; fresh from Nature's mould, 
Squire, farmer, sailor, each himself could see 

Like monarch's image stamped on coined gold. 
Where shall thy mantle fall? On whom descend ? 

True genius dwells not with us every day, 
Nor mirth and feeling in one spirit blend, 

Like that which once enlivened thy cold clay. 
We've seen the last of that frail tenement 

Which held within a fertile, subtile brain, 
To which a spark of genius freely lent 

Its radiance pure, to shine there without stain. 
Thousands will miss the old familiar face — 

And myriad voices syllable thy name ; 
Years will roll on ere one can fill thy place, 

Or reach the summit of thy well-earned fame. 
Sleep calmly then, the pine trees wave close by, 

The marble tombstone marks thy place of rest, 
Thy soul has ta'en its flight to realms on high, 

To be, I trust, with God for ever blest. 



Suggested by his absence from the Melbourne Hunt Club Meeting, 1870. 

Ah ! who shall strike the harp that Gordon swept 

With pliant fingers to a sporting theme? 
Its strings are broken, and the Bard is wept — 

Life's waters o'er him roll in whelming stream. 
His lays of Field and Course have stirred the soul, 

Like trumpet-call have fallen upon the ear; 
Pungent the incense, from its broken bowl, 

" The Old Black Pipe" emitted year by year. 
By " Flood and Field" I've wandered with him oft; 

"Bush Ballads" blend their beauty with the rhymes 
Which gallop smoothly to sweet music, soft 

Or loud, like some far sounding village chimes 
Borne upon evening's echoing changeful blast, 

Sound clear and near, and gently die away; 
Bitter and sweet, the memories of the past 

Are mingl'd with the poet's lifeless clay. 
I loved the man's true, pure, and simple mind, 

His honest love of right, straightforward play; 
No skulker he ; nor lagged he far behind 

When pluck and daring claimed to lead the way. 
How many missed his lithe and sinewy form 

Last Saturday, when jumpers took their place! 
Who can forget the boisterous, hearty storm 

Of cheers that used to greet him in the race? 


No more his face may glad the sportsman's eye; 

"The Lawn" shall bear no more his manly tread; 
To all who loved him he has said " Good-bye," 

And earth has closed upon his weary head. 
And no one left to fill the vacant chair 

Which he, as Sportsman Poet, graced so well; 
Not one to rouse the dingo from his lair, 

And all the joys of chase to truly tell. 
No bard am I to write his epitaph 

In true poetic numbers ; yet I have 
Some mournful pleasure in the autograph 

The poet's hand inscribed. And when he gave 
The last production of his tuneful muse, 

With proud anxiety, and bade me read 
The pages marked with care ; could I refuse 

To give him joy? and wish him all God speed! 
It was the last I saw of him in life ; 

I never clasped, with warmth, his hand again ; 
But he is free from this world's wearing strife : 

God rest his soul in peace, and so, Amen. 

October 17, 1870. 



On the wreck of the Rip stood the brave fellow Marr ; 

Undaunted, unflinching, he clung to the spar; 

With a wave of the hand and a move of the head 

(When wild desolation before him was spread), 

He bade them to sever the quivering mast, 

As the vessel careened to the furious blast. 

All speechless and helpless, his mates could but gaze 

With horror and grief on his death-stricken face. 

' He nodded, Good-bye, and we saw him no more," 

The wild cruel sea swept him far from the shore — 

Engulphed in the roll of the treacherous wave, 

Torn, mangled, and bleeding, yet cool, and so brave, 

Poor Preston and Hall found a watery grave. 

" M'Kenzie was cool;" in the height of the storm 

No fear was displayed in his sailor-like form, 

No shriek of despair rent the air as he sank 

In the seething white whirl of the billowy bank. 

No help was at hand from the ill-fated boat 

When the grim King of Terrors was grasping his throat. 

Nor time for a thought of his loved ones at home, 

As he battled for life in the midst of the foam. 

Thus brave men have perished, have died at their post, 

Nor will the cold sea give them back to the coast. 

Their graves are not shaded by cypress or yew — 

What matter ? they rest 'neath the great vault of blue, 

Near the bubble and boil of the dangerous Rip, 

Till the Pilot above wakes them all from their sleep. 




I start from England's busy mart 

Across the briny ocean, 
Prepared to play an active part, 

And keep the world in motion; 
I dip, I dive, I hang, I cling, 

In deeps and erst in shallows, 
And notes which from my wired harp ring 

Are heard by skimming swallows. 
I vibrate in the sun's bright ray, 

Beneath the seas I quiver; 
A moonbeam lights me on my way 

To join the Roper River. 

My sinuous form ne'er heeds a storm 

Throughout the broad Atlantic; 
It winds along where fishes swarm, 

And drives the mermaids frantic; 
They swing upon my caoutchouc 

Fly flip-flaps o'er and o'er me — 
They follow me through every nook, 

And wildly dance before me ; 
But I steal on my lengthy way, 

And do my best endeavour 
(While leaving them to sport and play) 

To reach the Roper River. 


I pass the desert's grassy spots, 

The Red Sea and Grand Cairo, 
Quite careless of the famed flesh-pots 

Of Egypt, or of Pharaoh; 
I rush along from Aden's shore, 

I dart into Batavia ; 
I feel I'm stretching more and more, 

And further from Belgravia. 
I coil among the reefs and rocks — 

The tropics see me shiver — 
But on I go, in spite of shocks, 

To reach the Roper River. 

I join the Roper, then make tracks, 

And off for South Australia, 
Wandering on through tribes of blacks, 

Whose chiefs wear no regalia : 
I twist, I turn, I twine about, 

To them a perfect wonder, 
As I pursue my steady route, 

In spite of rain or thunder; 
I loiter by a golden reef, 

I linger 'mid the bushes, 
I rest beside the rustling leaf 

And where the water rushes. 

And on again o'er hill and dale 

My mission is to carry 
By lightning flash the newest tale ; 

Nor tire nor ask to tarry. 



I startle all the world with news ; 

I join what none will sever — 
The world in one is mine to fuse, 

And will be so for ever. 


Scene: The Lands Office, 1873. 

The President sits in his high-backed chair, 

Portly in person and pleasant in looks; 
His countenance wears a most satisfied air, 

As he glances at papers or turns o'er his books. 
He deals with the lands in a marvellous way, 

Each suitor he hears with a dignified grace, 
And listens most blandly to what people say, 

Who come with a grievance for him to redress. 
Then to him, the Baron ; Von Mueller I mean, 

And Ferguson also, a gardener by trade ; 
And there was enacted the following scene — 

The dialogue taken from jottings then made: — 

The Baron, — " I dinks, Mr. Bresident, faar as I can, 
My gais it is deis, I'm a much apuis'd maan ; 
I shows you my crief, und I dells you mine voe, 
I boint in ze caardins to drees, vhich I crow. 


You do not abbreciate science, I say, 

Nor dings vhich I do in a vonderful vay; 

I have veaast gorresbondence mit eminent men, 

And science is veaastly in debt to my pen. 

Sir Henry Parkly, he wride und he say, 

1 My fery tear Parron, deis is not te vay 

Dey should deal mit a man of a standing like you, 

Suberior to many, und eaqvalled by few; 

In der science of Pottany you stand confest, 

Of its wotaries ze staunchest, most earnest and best.' 

Zen ze craade Dr. Hooker, mein eggsellend vriend, 

Remonstrades, you nodice, deglining to zend 

A caardner for landscaapes to suberzede me, 

And mit his sugguesstions, I hope you'll agree. 

Dus you see, Mr. Bresident, vhat I haf ton, 

In ze craade gause ov science vot vaame I haf von; 

Bud deis Viergusson goom mit hish bragticul vays, 

Dill he blaazes mein reason almost in a graze. 

He guts down der drees, vhich you know I so lofes, 

Und he makes mit his axes soom light in ze croves. 

Deis maan, you shall send him afay mit his drees, 

Faar in ze staate vorest, so faar ash you bleeze; 

I shall not apare him to goom neer der blaace, 

I nevar shall like not to look in his vaace. 

A poard zit upon me — now deis is not nice, 

Und I make deis gomblaining more often as tvice. 

A maan vas abboinded, von Mitchell py naame, 

He write in ze baabers and sully my faame ; 

I obyected, you zee, to zis maan on ze poard, 

I dinks itz not vair if zey shall not affoard 

F 2 


An imbartial inqviry, und deis gannot pe, 
So long vhat deis maan haf a town upon me ; 
, You zee in ze Leodar how pidder he writes — 
He haf boison't my tays and impitter'd my nights : 
How den shall I pare to be shooged py deis maan? 
And dis den is vhy I obyect to deir plaan. 
I vish to egsblain, too, pevore I sid town, 
Und vhen I haf ton I shall vairly haf shown 
Gombarizons air nod at all dimes zo vair 
As vhat you might dink, or as dings may abbear — 
Ze Potanical Cardens gombaird to Fitzroy! 
Id is not a vair von, I dells you vor vhy, 
In von blaace you shoost dearn ze gock, und you zees 
A vine sdream of wasser among all ze drees. 
In ze oder ? Veil ! I haf my floot tarn to make 
Und you air avair vhat a dime dis shall dake. 
A seurgumsteance during de least year ockkears, 
Which nevaar haf habbened de laasd deirty years, 
'Twas deis, my lakoon id git beervectly try, 
And if I not eggskawate ? — den py and pye 
Vhat plame I shall haf vrom de Minisder's hands, 
As veil vrom de shief in de Office for Lands. 
Moreover, I dinks vhat it den shall be said 
Zat de Paron Von Mueller haf cot a thick head. 
I feurder vould add, Mr. Bresitent, now, 
As you air so kind — I'll endeavour to show 
How science is slighted — und how, vhen I gome 
Veirst indo dis gountry to make it my home, 
I leafe faar pehint me mein own Vaterlandt, 
Its moundains, its walleys, und rifers so grandt; 


I goom to dis gountry — I gif my whole life 
To science — I nevaar haf taaken a vife ; 
No liddle Von Muellers gling to my knee, 
I haf not a pabee to smile upon me. 
Ze baabers air spideful, ze Ministers plind; . 
Zay do not abbreciate science or mind, 
And Viergusson flourishes vixed in his blaace, 
Und I am disgarded in shame and disgrace." 

^'Um! hah!" quoth the President; "pray let us hear 

What Ferguson says — Baron, pray take a chair: 

And, now, Mr. Ferguson, what do you say ? 

You've listened, I'm sure, to the eloquent way 

The Baron has stated the whole of his case." 

A smile mantled o'er Mr. Ferguson's face ; 

And oxygen glowed in the whole of his veins, 

As he said: " Well, the Baron's not wise for his pains; 

If he'll mind his science and let me alone, 

I'll show him how flowers and plants should be grown." 

The President smiled in his own pleasant way, 

And wished them both, blandly, a very good day. 



Written during the Famine in Lancashire. 

Awve lately coom o'er just to see thi \ 

Awm a Lancashire lad tha mun know ; 
Awve heerd some foin tales from Australy, 

Its a gradely loike place — it is so ! 
Theers some o yo felleys is good uns — 

Theaws't gotten th' reet koind o yed ; 
Awm blessed if awve seen mony betther 

When poor folk is clemming for bread.. 

Awm towd ut yo've been only lately 

Subscroibing a rare lot o brass, 
To help a few o'er to this kunthri — 

Theaw conno do better, by'th mass. 
Theawlt foin'd em o nobbut rare workers ; 

Theaw wilt, ur awm sadly mistaen ; 
Awm fain to think noan ull be shirkers, 

So kunthri is beawn to geet gain. 

Theers t J pappurs an chap tha co'n Iv'rard, 

Han o bin a takkin their parts; 
When 't news reoches o'er to owd kunthri, 

Eh, mon ! it'll gladden thir hearts. 
The toimes theer ar nobbut bo queer, loike, 

An folk ha bin scanted o bread ; 
Awm thinking theers room for em heer, loike. 

An pasther weer o can geet fed. 


Aw dunnot see mony folk clemming, 

Or trailing abeawt i ; disthress; 
Bo theors beawn to be some ut ar iC loafers," 

An beawn to be some i' a mess. 
Awve been a bit looking abeawt me, 

Things may'nt be so brisk as they wur ; 
Bo awm thinking they'll mend very shortly, 

An be just as breet as befur. 

Theers a chap ? t yon parlymint heawses, 

By'th mass, heaw hoo reav'd an rapt eawt : 
Hoo sed ut hoo wanted no moor folk — 

Aw conno tell what hoo's abeawt. 
Does hoo think ut hoo'l iver be king heer, 

An send th J owd kunthri adrift? 
Awm fain to think no such a thing, fur 

Aw'd sooner wi Queen still mak shift. 

Awn gwoin to keawr deawn heer ? Melbourne, 

So mebbee awl wroite tha next weok; 
Awle happin see summat to pleaze ma, 

Iv so, awl do nobbut bo speok. 
Theirs mony things happin heer daily 

Ut a felley loike me's niver sean ; 
Awm beawn to speok eawt pratty freely, 

So awe rekkon theawlt heer fro' ma agean. 


NO. II. 

Aw towd tha awd wroite tha agaan, 

As sune as aw'd toime to look reawnd ; 
Awve seon a few things pratty plaan 

Since then, an aw foind ut awm beawnd 
To speok about some funy maks 

Ut folk a bin playing o' laate ; 
Yon felleys they co'n moral chaps, 

Han gotten a rare chance to praate 

To a chap they co'n Reiby. Eh, mon, 

He's a rum un aw rekkon, to be 
A preocher o' gospel 5 to some 

He's a regular loominary. 
Them felleys ut fossick abeawt 

I' Bourke-street to leuk at th ; gells, 
May fain take a trip o'er t' say, 

Un preoch to sum drawing-room belles. 

Their morals awm thinking are shy, 

They're brassen i' sum o' thir gams; 
Bo aw think ut its plaanly seen why, 

When shepherd asthray leads t' lambs. 
This scandal is nobbut a blot, 

A staane, an a lashting disgraace ; 
Let uz hope it weant happen agaan 

As long as aw stop i'th plaace. 


Them felleys uts bin an caught Power 

Are nobbut be good uns, aw guess ; 
That Longmore may raave eawt an roar, 

He's gotten hissen i ; a mess ; 
As fur as his slander cud gooa, 

He's nobbut a blethering ass. 
Here's lung life to Montford an Hare, 

An Nicholson, in a full glass. 

— *~§3-^ — 

By Kunstible Keen. 

[The following little episode, which occurred as related, shows the de- 
sirability of respecting the Beaks. Mr. Faussit entered an action, 
but it would not lie. ] 

Last Satterdy I was hon dootee, 

Hemerald ill hit was mi bete, 
Nimmo shines thair hin is beauty; 

To see im froun hit his a trete. 

The pubs were hall hassembuld thare 2 

Get thair lisenses renued; 
Hand many a boosum bete with fear, threw ■ 

Aving hall thare hacts reevued. 


Wen i Hallin's name was calFd hout 

E didn't hansur 2 the saim, 
Hand tharehupon the chareman balPd hout 

"Refused," hand cawled hanother naim. 

Then Mr. Fassit, hoo's a lawyer 
Hof sum skill hand grate renoun, 

Hask'd the bench 2 give im justiss, 
But tha told im 2 sit down. 

Warehupon e stated boldlee 

That thare wurships ad done rong, 

Hand begg'd tha wouldent treate so coldly 
Is clyent's clame, hand put hit strong. 

O then hit was a trete to witness 
Rauth hand hangar hon the brow 

Hof each beke, wile fear hand tremblin 
Fell hupon the croud B low. 

Which these words ware huttered 4thwith 
Bye the chareman hin his rorth: 

"Cir, i fine u for t shillins, 
Hor 2 prison u go 4th. 

"Uve reflected hon. hour wisdumb, 
Zouns, cir, this kan never B, 

We shall teach u better manners 
Than to dictate 2 us 3. 


"Take im hout, hinspectur Birton, 

Lodge im hin the dunjun sell, 
Till e payse the for t shillins, 

That's the plase will soot im well." 

When Mr. Birton calls the sarjunt, 

Mr. Fassit folds is harms, 
Hand survays with stum defiance 

Hall the bekes with hall thare charms. 

For a momen \ then is judgment 

Prompted im to pay the tin, 
So e forked hout for t shillings 

With a qureous kind of grin. 

Then e told the bekes quite karmly 

That hupon some fuchur da, 
Hin a cort B 4 a Jewry 

E shud ave hanuther sa. 

Hin the menetime is poor clyent 

As to seese from drawing bier, 
Just because he wasn't present 

When tha cawled im 2 happeer. 


Hallus hansur hin the pleece cort, 

When tha cawl halowd ure naim, 
Hor ye'll find you'll get in trubble 

Hand but ave ureself to blaim. 



O, fare thee weel noo, Jamie, 

Ye're ganging faur away, 
Ye're gaun awa' to Scotia's hills, 

Across the saut saut sea. 
An' we shall greet fu' sair, Jamie, 

When ye hae ta'en your flight ; 
For weel I ween there ne'er was seen 

A baulder, burlier knight. 

O, Jamie, weel we ken it ; 

Ye've feathert weel yeer nest; 
An' for yours el ye ken fu' weel 

Ye've dune your " level best." 
An' aye a handle to your name 

Is tacked for ever mair ; 
To bid yee noo a lang adieu 

My heart will greet fu' sair. 

Dear Jamie, at our parting 

I'm thinking o' the past ; 
Departing rays o' vanished days, 

Thae days that couldna last — 
When bauld M'Culloch ! was the cry 

That rous'd up ilka heart, 
And made the hair upon the heed 

Of ilka Scotchman start. 


Look, Jamie, what an awfu' change 

Has come across the scene 
Since ilka chiel in this our land 

Swore by thy tartan green. 
Now Duffy is their idol, 

You'll tak a hinmost seat ; 
I'm thinking it will dae ye gude, 

But mon, ye needna greet. 

Ye just was getting unco big, 

An' pride maun hae a fa', 
An' heartily I'll take yere haun 

When ye are gaun awa'. 
Ye muckle burlie cannie chiel, 

Ye're just the mon for me ; 
Ye've served your kintra an' yoursel — 

Thafs what I like to see. 

But when in Scotland, Jamie dear, 

Ye'll no forget your friends ; 
Ye'll think some time o' G. P. Smith 

And Vale, and aye what lends 
Enchantment to sic charming views 

As thae whilk ance were near ; 
That distance is the medium through 

Which all seems bright and clear. 

Ance mair adieu ! When steam and sail 

Have borne you from our sight, 
And waves are splashing round your heed, 

An' ye pace the deck at night, 


Ye'll calmly think, dear Jamie, then, 
And bless wi' a' your might, 

The fates that sent you here a clerk, 
And back a burlie knight. 


Welcome bock again, Sir Jamie ! 

Certes, I am unco' glad ; 
Man, we've missed ye a'thegither ; 

'Ech, I'm pleased to see ye, lad. 
For ye're looking fierce and frisky, 

Younger by a twa or three year, 
I'm thinking ye'll hae taen some whisky 

Wi' your Hieland kinfolk there ; 

Doon awa amang the heather, 

Owre the muirland and the brae, 
Whar lang syne ye used to gather 

Blooming wild flowers by the way. 
An' ye're bock in time, my laddie, 

Sic an awfu' mull they've made, 
A' aboot this Mount and Morris ; 

Man dear, I am sair afraid 


They hae gotten intil trouble, 

For they're looking varra glum ; 
Jemmy Grant has blown a bubble, 

Which will burst amang 'em — some. 
Ech, Sir James, I much misdoot me 

But yell see an awfu' change 
When ye just look roond aboot ye, 

When your een the front bench range — 

Scan that bench ye sae lang gracit, 

See wha sits wi' yere auld mate — 
Langton ! Gillies ! Cohen ! Kerferd ! ! 

Men fra whom ye met yere fate. 
But they've made a fearfu' muddle, 

Mount and Moms are gane free, 
And there's gaun to be a scrammle 

For the bench ca'd Treasury. 

An' wha kens but we may see ye 

Bock agin upon that seat 
Whar sae lang ye ruled the kintra — 

Eh, Sir Jamie? power is sweet. 
P'raps ye'll bring Sir George in wi' ye; 

Ye'll hae baith looked at the Queen, 
An' the House o' Commons lately, 

As weel's what else is tae be seen. 

An' ye'll bring the newest notions 

Frae the auld respeckit land; 
Sae we'll greet ye ance mair, Jamie, 

Grip ye warmly by the hand. 


Greet ye wi' a kindly greeting, 
Wish ye a' ye wish yersel. 

Man dear, 'tis a gladsome meeting — 
Yee'l hae had a fairish spell 

O'er amang the folk in Lunnon 

Roon aboot Auld Reekie's towers, 
Wliar the northern sun has shone on 

Fairy scenes in by-gane hours. 
But ye like your squatting stations, 

And ye loe your fleecy wool, 
And ye leave the aulder nations 

And come back, yer heart quite full- 
Full o' future grand aspirings, 

Wi' ambition fully chairged ; 
Full o' wishes, hopes, desirings, 

W? ideas much enlairged. 
An yell gie's your crack, my mannie, 

When election time comes round, 
An' when in the House sae cannie, 

On the front seat ye are found. 

Ance mair, then, a welcome hearty; 

Gie's yer help as lang's ye can, 
Free frae all cabals or party, 

Then yell thrice be welcome, man. 



I know not of what I can speak, 

All seems a dull blank in the press, 
I've watched every day for a week, 

Each day there appears to be less; 
South Melbourne has charge of the Cup, 

And Clarke's had a very bad night, 
The sporting world's nearly done up, 

And I'm puzzled for something to write. 

There's Rickards, the famous comique, 

Of babies tie likes to take care ; 
The Royal has, during the week, 

Been catching the folks with a Snare. 
Miss Ernestone has talent, no doubt, 

And Rickards I've heard with delight, 
He really knows what he's about — 

Yet still I have nothing to write. 

D. Fraser's determined to have 

The parson who stole the discourse ; 
No mercy ! on this side the grave, 

No matter how deep the remorse. 
These Christians have wonderful hearts : 

It is such a beautiful sight, 
To watch the benevolent parts 

They play for each other's delight. 



There's Thomson, the doctor, disdains 

To act diphtheretically, 
And takes an immense deal of pains 

To infmitesimally 
Explain the euphemistic dodge, 

Eclective! wild!! artful!!! delight, 
And where the chimeras will lodge ; 

I'm puzzled, but p'rhaps he was right. 

The ladies have met to discuss, 

At the School for the Indigent Blind, 
A grievance — indeed, without fuss, 

They are right," I to think am inclined. 
The present committee's a sham — 

Self-appointed — which cannot be right ; 
But those who subscribe are to blame — 

On this I'm not puzzled to write. 

The mails have arrived, and they bring- 
Good news, for the Prince has got well, 

And pseans of thankfulness ring, 
And feelings of gratitude swell 

Through the length and the breadth of the land, 
Where loyalty lives ; with delight, 

Punch hails it, with heart and with hand — 
He's thankful he has it to write. 



The street of Collins is a wondrous street, 
Where curious people every morning meet 
To transact business with most serious looks, 
And madly rush about with open books ; 
A motley group of many sorts of men 
On speculation bent. And now and then 
All through their conversation freely runs 
This story: — I'll buy ' Ajax number ones/ 
' Great Gulfs ' I'll sell, or ' Parks,' or 'Newingtons.' 
Or change the story to another tune, 
And — I can sell a parcel of 'New Moon/ 
Or buy some ' Clara's ' or a ' Picaninny/ 
The 'Ladies' Tribute' is not worth a guinea. 
'Koch's Pioneer' looks up among the rest, 
And ' Royal Hustler's' rank among the best. 
The 'Golden Fleece' has struck some golden seams, 
And gold is present in the 'Golden Streams.' 
'Lothair' and 'Robin Hood' behave like bricks, 
1 Buffalo Heads' are sold at ten and six. 
'Black Horses' wanted, and a ready sale 
For 'Garden Gullys' and for 'Avondale;' 
The 'Broomielaw' is offered for a crown, 
The 'Union Jack' is rather looking down; 
' Happy-go-Lucky ' go at two and nine, 
The 'Hope' is buoyant, and the 'Brilliants' shine. 
The ' Golden Lion Tribute' is the rage, 
And sales are freely made of ' Golden Age.' 

g 2 


Some ' Mopoke ' or ' New Chum ' are freely bought, 

And ' Richard Heales' has everywhere been sought. 

'Star of the East' is wanted every night, 

The ' Southern Cross' has shone out very bright. 

'Great Comet' shines with no resplendent light. 

The 'Hercules' has come out rather strong, 

'Nil Desperandum' says 'M'Lay's Marong.' 

Of ' Unity ' there's been a ready sale, 

' United Perseverance ' must prevail ; — 

And thus from day to day goes on the tale. 


Written on yudge Felloid's departure for England, 

A few words at parting, to wish him God-speed ! 

The King of good Fellows, a true friend in need. 

His good-natured features and mischievous smile, 

His big, burly form, will be missed for a while. 

We wish him good-bye, and a speedy return 

To the scene of his labours. Ah ! many will yearn 

For the kind, feeling heart, which could never withstand 

The claims of misfortune — the liberal hand 

Which ever was open to charity's call, 

And prompt to relieve the distresses of all ! 

We ill can afford, now, to lose such a man : 

The Bar and the Senate may do what they can, 

But they will not replace him. And so let us say, 

Farewell! and come back at your earliest day. 



After Barham (a little way). 

Och, the celebrashun at the railway stashun, 

On a late occashun, made my hair to shtare ; 
For going to Seymour, there was Mr. T. Moore, 

And two or three more M.P.'s were there. 
'Twas there you'd see the railway porthers 

Rushing about to open the doors ; 
And lots of ladies and the two O'Grady's — 

All sthanding ready wor the min in shcores. 

The platform thronging, they all were longing 

To rush ding dong in, to take their sates ; 
And widows waiting, their hearts elating, 

Or wildly bating wid the wildest bates ; 
And whin they're sated, feel quite elated, 

And looking plased like, wid a lovely shmile. 
Prim as a daisy sits Prisident Casey, 

Wid a beautiful noshegay in hish breasht all the while. 

There was all the Cabinet, I can't help blabbing it, 
(The rhyme's not parfect, but I can't help that), 

They seemed so cheerful, not the laste bit tearful, 
Nor as if they wor at all inclined to fret; 


And Francis laughed wid, and Langton chaffed wid 

(Indeed I hard he was seen to shmile) 
All the M.P.'s shtanding upon the landing — 

Av coorse it's the platform I mane all the while. 

There was Mr. Walker, though he's no grate talker, 

He's a dacent fellow; and the good John James, 
Likewise Mr. Shpaker, and Mr. Jones the quaker, 

All bound for Seymour to taste the crames. 
There were lots of lawyers, and some grate top-sawyers, 

Maning all the big wigs in this famous town; 
And girls wid hair pads (faix, they're mighty qhuare pads), 

From the broightest yellow to the darkesht brown. 

The train at shtarting made a dreadful shnorting, 

Just like a grampus when he's short of wind, 
Wid the shmoke and shtaming, and the whishtle schraming, 

Soon left the staashun far enough behind. 
And thin another one, just like the t'other one, 

Was filled as quickly as you could count ten ; 
Wid the Vice-Ragal party, all looking harty, 

The ladies as will as the gintlemen. 

For the Hon. Miss Sutton had this morning put on 
Hur purtiest dimple and her shwatest shmile, 

And Lieutenant Terry looked as gay and merry 
As the noble Viscount singing Annie Lile. 

Misther Bright was thare too, sitting down quite near to, 
And chatting gaily in the Governor's ear ; 


And the Railway Minishter, looking noway sinishter, 
But shoining and dapper loike — in fact, all there. 

But the train's in moshun, and I've a noshun, 

That it would be betther I should move an too, 
Among the scenery, whar delightful greenery 

Is altogether the prevailing hue. 
In the Vale of Pashcoe we've no fiashco, 

But pass quoite safely an to East Kilmore, 
By Wallan Wallan, and don't shtop to call on 

The station mashter, as IVe done before. 

Wid the north wind blowing, we shtill keep going, 

By Broadfoard township and by Tullarook, 
When Mr. T. Moore sings out — There's Seymour ! 

And by dad there was then, whin we took a look. 
Now we rache the stashun, where a great orashun 

Is read aloud by the local mayor, 
And a wild Seymorian, in tones Stentorian, 

Is hoarse wid shouting as he rinds the air. 

Bedad I'm thinking there'll be some dhrinking, 

And ateing too, boys, in that monster tent ; 
So there was that same too, and little blame to 

The hungry craythurs, as I remarked to Bent. 
O ! the guests then present all so gay and pleasant, 

Stood waiting, gathered into little groups, 
Their mouths all wathering, and prepared for slaughtering 

Mr. Hughes' turkeys, and to ate his soops. 


Whin they'd finished ateing, and were about retrating, 

Then the Chairman rises up on to his legs, 
And makes a request there, that every guest there 

Will rise immadiately, and further begs 
That they'd charge their glasses, men, women and lasses,. 

And drink the Queen as Britons always should do. 
The wine was shplendid, and before they ended, 

The bottles they emptied, begorra, were not a few ! 

Then the other spaches, before this raches 

An end, I'll tell you what they were all about. 
Shtop! No ! Be japers, they are in all the papers, 

So if you want to know, you can find it out. 
Thare was lots of funning, and some wakely punning, 

And games at whisht, farty-foive and loo, 
And some bright eyes glancing set some hearts dancing 

As we travelled homewards — I hope this will do. 





Near to Beaufort lived a farmer, 

And the place was Middle Creek: 
Of this pious Highland laddie 

I am now about to speak, 
And tell how Donald got quite sweet on 

(Asking her for her fair hand) 
A Highland lassie, Annie Beaton — 

Telling her of crops and land. 

In this Highland lassie's bosom 

(Aged only twenty -six) 
Donald raised up hopes of marriage 

Ere he played his little tricks ; 
Talked of future pigs to Annie, 

Said he was in want of sarks ; 
Sent her twenty pounds in money, 

Then commenced to play his larks. 

Canting, cannie, cautious Donald, 

Pious too, without a doubt, 
Put to Annie several questions 

In a letter most devout. 


" Can it be that you are forty ? 

Have you got bad nature too ? 
(Donald's love begins to flicker) 

Won't you wait a year or two ?" 

Annie has a shrewd old uncle, 

One whom Donald " honoured much/' 
And this braw auld Scotchman says, '"If 

You're a man, pray act as such." 
Donald then, misquoting Scripture, 

Tells of " Tamar and of Ammon," 
Asks her not to go to law, and 

Talks a deal of pious gammon. 

In a manner which disgusts, this 

Cannie, canting Scotchman craves 
His release from his engagement. 

Wild with pious rage he raves; 
Law he dreads with nervous horror, 

Quoting David ; and the plan 
Annie threatens doesn't suit him — 

He " prefers the Lord to man." 

But the lassie found a lawyer 

With a speculative mind, 
Who for her will find the needful — 

Mr. Walker, too, is kind. 
So she wrote to dear M'Donald 

In a business kind of way — 
" If you don't intend to marry, 

Just three hundred pounds you'll pay." 


Stronger still in texts of Scripture, 

Less and less inclined to wed, 
In the court at length we see him, 

In that court he seemed to dread. 
And the jury find for Annie; 

To console her for the loss 
Of faithless Donald, they award her 

Something handsome in the gross. 


Pious Highlanders, take warning; 

If to wedlock you're inclined, 
Don't you twist or throw your sweethearts; 

Keep Ann Beaton in your mind : 
Recollect the fate of Donald, 

Don't quote Scripture to excuse 
A shuffling, snivelling course of conduct — 

Don't wear wicked Donald's shoes. 




Time — 1972. Scene- -Founder's Cottage, Merri Creek. 

Dramatis Persons — Grandfather Brown, a retired old Actor; 
Young Brown, his grandson, a lad, 

O. B. — My grandfather has told me, boy, that he remem- 
bered well 
This city, now so rich and gay, when but a pastoral dell — 
That bronzewing pigeons built their nests where stands our 

Senate Hall — 
That kangaroos hopped fearlessly within the city's wall — 
That when he was a little boy, about the size of you, 
He used to hunt the native bear in gum-trees gaunt and 

blue ; 
He saw the city quickly spring from forest into town, 
And ships from every nation bring their commerce for her 

And people madly rushed to grasp the boundless stores 

of gold 
Which lay within the teeming lap of Ballarat of old. 

Boy. — But, grandpa, tell me, for I like to hear you when 
you speak 
Of those old times when Bendigo sent so much gold each 


O. B. — Ah, boy! I've heard my grandsire tell some 
curious yarns at times, 

Of strokes of luck, of fortunes made, of many fearful crimes • 

High hopes and aspirations crushed, pile upon pile knocked 
down — 

That was the slang for spending, when they brought their 
gold to town — 

And diggers' weddings daily were the outcome of the spree ; 

While circus clowns and silly girls, in flaunting finery, 

Dashed through the muddy crowded streets in carriages and 
pairs ; 

And Biddy, wid her sathin dress, put on her jauntiest airs. 

Bushranging then was at its height, and Captain Melville 
reigned ; 

Reckless of danger or of life when plunder could be gained. 

I've heard the old man often speak of Coppin's dodges 
then — 

Who'd lost some fortunes, three or four, and won them back 
again — 

Who'd started this Dramatic Fund which keeps me here to- 

In independence, my dear boy. That's a'proud thing to say. 

'Twas then he had a precious row with Viscount Canter- 

The papers all were down on him, 'twas hot for Coppin, 

He didn't seem to mind it much \ I've heard my grandsire 

That Coppin was a " curious cuss," and mostly had his 


IVe laughed to hear the old man talk about a cricket match 
They played upon the Melbourne ground, when Greville 

tried to catch 
The ball within his high-crowned hat — he was a funny 

" fella"— 
And Coppin fielded gloriously with Paul Pry's umbrella. 
But I am getting tiresome, boy. 

Boy. — Oh, no, grandad, go on; 

I like to hear of those old times. That story you began 
The other day, of G. V. Brooke, whose melancholy fate 
Has made me cry so many times. 

O. B. — Ah, boy, he was a great 

And gifted son of genius, a master of his art ; 
Aye, more than master — monarch! he excelled in every 

My father knew him, and IVe seen his bosom proudly 

When telling of Brooke's triumphs in the art he loved so 

The grandeur of his presence, the rich tones of his voice, 
Were graven on his memory ; and, oh ! he would rejoice 
When telling of Brooke's comedy, " Felix O'Callaghan," 
And " Pierce O'Hara," " Benedick," — Ah, boy ! he was a 

Whose equal has not yet appeared in this or any age, 
In the annals of the drama, in the history of the stage, 
Brooke's name stands forth pre-eminent among a mighty host 


Of whom you've read, and who, I've heard my poor old 

father boast, 
Were known to him, as boy and man (some were his own 

He'd seen them all at intervals for fully fifty years. 
And giants in the Thespian Art lived in my father's days, 
Men whom to know was but to feel they were above all praise ; 
The Lamberts, and the Jeffersons, and Rogers. Ah, my boy 1 
When talking of these gifted men, the old man, filled with 

Would tell of " Rip Van Winkle," as he had seen it played 
By one who ne'er has been approached in aught that he 

Whom Nature marked as all her own, whose presence 

seemed a spell, 
Whose pathos none could e'er behold, but tears would 

quickly well 
Within the trembling eyelids, and as quickly disappear 
As some bright bubbling burst of fun broke broadly on the 

Montgomery, too, the victim of a woman's deep design : 
No Hamlet that e'er graced the stage could hope with him 

to shine. 
And actresses who knew their art, like Cleveland, Kean, 

and Heir, 
Like Phillips or poor Vickery, or Ellen Mortyn fair, 
Were brought as stars to Melbourne, and well each (in her 

Fulfilled the task allotted her ; and I have heard him say 
That native talent homeward went of no mean order, lad. 


Our Mrs. Herman Vezin and our Julia Mathews had 
A bright career in Britain's Isle among such famous men 
As Phelps and Robson, Toole and Wright; and further- 
more, that then 
Some young aspirants rose who used to nightly charm the 

In " School," " Caste," and " Pygmalion," they " won a 

great renown." 
Shepparde and Carey, graceful girls, soon after were the rage, 
And e'en the Royal Company fill up a famous page 
Within the written history of that eventful age, 
(When all the men I've spoken of, of whom my grandsire told, 
Were in the zenith of their fame, and Melbourne teemed 

with gold.) 
Th' Old Iron Pot and erst Tom Nunn are links, too, in its 

While Farquharson and Sullivan present themselves again, 
As I have heard them oft described by those who knew 

them well, 
And who could all their ways describe, and all their failings 

When Stewart lived and Harwood reigned, and Coppin 

ruled the roast, 
Then Hennings' genius crowned the whole, for he could 

proudly boast 
A master's hand, a magic touch, a pencil of such skill 
That temple, dome or minaret were subject to his will; 
And fairy scenes and broad burlesque, or old historic play, 
Were placed in splendour on the stage, in Pitt and Hen- 

nings' day. 


Some other time I'll tell you more. Your father's gone to play 
In Sydney, did you say, to-night? and only left to-day? 
Went by the train this morning? that's doing the journey 

The season at Port Darwin commences, too, next week — 
Queen Mary Ann's bespeak, I hear, takes place to-morrow 

Your father will be back again? 

Boy. — He said he would. 

O. B— That's right, 

The Federal Council meets next month, as I have just 

been told. 
These Congress men are much the same as M.L.A.'s of old. 
Sad news is flashed from England, for the President is dead, 
And rumour says another Dilke will chosen be instead. 
The King of the United States has got a son and heir — 
The Republicans of Russia are triumphant everywhere. 
Some other day, my bonny boy, I hope to tell you all 
I've heard concerning a bazaar held in St. George's Hall — 
In Coppin's time it was, my lad; my grandmother was there, 
And had a stall of fancy goods at that same fancy fair; 
She helped to raise some of the funds which built my home 

to-day — 
It was a wise provision, too, made in a simple way. 
I see the wisdom now, quite plain, which prompted them to 

An institution well designed to cheer the old man's heart, 
And make the later years he has to spend upon the earth 
Glide smoothly on, till he return to God who gave him birth. 

t/^j </& 



TO A. L. G. 

J HE time is quickly coming, 

When our sporting bards will try, 
In dreary couplets humming, 

To give the reasons why 
They talk of deeds of high-bred steeds, 

And give a sporting tip ; 
But will Gordon wake, and the ashes shake 

From his old black pipe? and peep 
Into realms of fancy, where dwells the horse, 

And sing, as he's done before, 
Of him who bounds o'er the springy course, 

Or the hunter which goes to the fore ? 

I have read with delight his " Visions in Smoke," 
His lays on the "Cottswold Fields," 

And vanished scenes o'er my mem'ry broke, 
As when mist to the sunlight yields ; 

I have stood again at the cover side, 
Have heard the "View halloo," 
H 2 


Have watched the fox through the brushwood glide 
And the pace which the men with the Pytchley ride, 
Seen Osbaldeston stride for stride 

With the hounds and their game in view ; 
And the crack of his whip was borne to my ear,' 

The trees in the spinneys shook, 
And the ring of the huntsman's horn was near, 

As I marked where he charged the brook. 
And black Tom Olliver's form I've seen, 

I have scanned his firm-set lips, 
And Kench and Horley in coats of green, 
With Cook and Craven, all sportsmen keen, 

And Stephens, the prince of whips • 
Seen Cardigan ride with that lack of fear 

He showed on the Russian plain, 
When he led the charge with never a cheer, 
Through the thundering volleys which smote the ear, 

And the bullets which fell like rain; 
I have seen -again old Vivian's tail, 

And Becher, with graceful seat, 
On the game old horse through the Dunchurch vale, 

Flying the double or post-and-rail, 
Mid shouts of "The blue will beat." 

The grateful memory of old times, 

Those days which can come no more, 
Is brightened and cherished by Gordon's rhymes, 
Which sound on my ear like familiar chimes, 
Stirring my heart to its core; 


I've admired their beauty, have felt their force, 

Have shared in the honest pride 
He feels in his love for his old pet horse, 
Which quietly listens to his discourse 

While browsing along by his side. 
May the "Old Black Pipe" remain in his teeth, 

May its smoke still eddy away, 
"On the tall grey cliff with the surf beneath,'' 
Till visions he sees again through the wreath 

Which curls from his ancient clay. 
May a dreamy mood o'er his senses steal. 

As he wanders through bush and fen ; 
May his terse descriptions still make us feel 

The power of that magic pen- 
May a burst of song break forth on his ear, 

In language as nervous and bold 
As that of " Ye Wearie Wayfarer" 

Over the famed Cottswold. 
While he utters his thoughts on the coming day, 

May his inspirations be 
Illumed with the same poetical ray, 

As vivid, as truthful, as free. 

So come, my friend, fill up the old clay, 
Strike a match and indulge in a smoke, 

And furnish at once, if you please, I pray, 
Your tip to the racing folk, 

On a subject w T hich "Tomboy " and Voltigeur" 
Will debate in slow commonplace prose, 


And "Orange Blossom," you may be sure, 

Will tell whatever he knows, 
And "Pegasus," p'raps, with his Sydney wings, 

Will revel in fancy's flight, 
And give his opinion on horses and things, 

Which the future's to bring to light. 
But a dreamy reverie coming from you 

Will exceed all that they can write, 
For the poet's thoughts will enrich it all through 

With sparkling gems of light. 
Rhyme, Gordon, again, then, as if on the shore 

Of that marvellous dreamland of thine; 
The spirit of prophecy summon once more, 

And the truth with thy genius entwine. 
I shall patiently wait, but expect to see, 

In the columns of friendly "Bell," 
A rhyming prophetical rhapsody 

By one who can do it so well. 



Sir Thomas De Coker, as you are aware, 

Scans calmly the leaves of his betting book; 
Lightly his fingers he runs through his hair, 

And his face wears at once a most satisfied l©ok. 
A very good humour he seems to be in, 

Gives one of his knowing, remarkable nods, 
Chuckles and smiles with a quiet grin 

As he coolly considers the state of the odds. 
And Sir Thomas he thinks it a very good thing, 
As each horse arrives at the top of the tree — 
A very good thing for the men of the ring, 
And the odds just suit them all to a tee. 

How many starters ? and who'll get a place ? 

What are the odds about one, two, or three ? 
Will twenty or thirty be seen in the race ? 

How many defunct are there likely to be ? 
Will a horse or a mare prove the best of the lot? 

Or a gelding astonish the folks on the hill ? 
There are four which will make it so terribly hot, 

That the mares and the horses must never stand still. 
So among all the chances it is a good thing, 

As each horse arrives at the top of the tree — 
A very good thing for the men of the ring, 
And the odds just suit them all to a tee. 


Then as to the colour, who is there can say 

Of what hue is the skin which the winner will wear? 
Whether chesnut or grey, or a golden-skinned bay 

Will finish in front of the arbiter's chair? 
A brown or a black may astonish the throng, 

The Lamb may be skinned by an outsider rank; 
If so, what a shouting will echo along, 

While the favourite's backers look perfectly blank. 
All chances considered, it is a good thing, 

As each horse arrives at the top of the tree — 
A very good thing for the men of the ring, 
And the odds must suit them all to a tee. . 

Then taking each double and treble event, 

He runs o'er his list, and he feels he's all right ; 
He looks at each name which he knows isn't meant, 
And his countenance beams with additional light. 
Then he wonders and ponders within his own mind, 

And a longing desire in his bosom there lurks : 
It strengthens and grows, and he wishes to find 

Out the horse which will finish in front of " The Works." 
Yet among all the chances it is a good thing, 

As each horse arrives at the top of the tree — 
A very good thing, say the men of the ring, 

And the odds they will suit us, aye, all to a tee. 

Is it Tim or the Rose which will make him succumb ? 

Will Lancashire Witch, or the Fly, or will Strop 
Or Barwon (I'm told he's a regular plum) 

From the colt of the season his proud title lop ? 


Will Little Fish swim in his wake once again ? 

Are questions, I know, which he fain would find out ; 
He picks out a score, and it seems very plain 
That they are all losers without any doubt. 
So among the outsiders it is a good thing, 

As each, in its turn, mounts the top of the tree — 
A remarkable thing for the men of the ring, 
And the odds suit the gentlemen marvellously. 

Then as to the time which the winner will take 

To accomplish his task in? can anyone say 
How many false starts Mr. Watson will make ? 

For the young ones will muster in force on the day. 
And the accidents which must occur in a race 
Where so many starters are sure to appear, 
Are so many chances that none get a place, 

And make the odds greater, that's perfectly clear 
To Sir Thomas, who says that it is a good thing, 
As the chances increase in a greater degree — 
A stunning good thing for the men of the ring, 
And the odds suit the bookmakers all to a tee. 

So he closes his book, and admires his physique, 

In the long cheval glass which is placed near the wall; 
What a figure he'll make in a pose plastique 

In the group which is at the " Varieties Hall." 
It is there you may find him each day, if you please ; 

He'll lay you the odds to whatever you want; 
Commence at a pound, and go up by degrees, 

To a thousand or two, if you'll give him a slant. 


For Sir Thomas he knows that it is a good thing, 
Among all the chances he plainly can see, 

Tis a very good thing for the men of the ring, 
And the odds suit the gentlemen all to a tee. 

— >*-§*§-^ — 


[At the request of some of my subscribers, I have made the following 
pieces records of the actual winners of the races referred to, not with 
any intention of superseding that admirable production which eman- 
ates yearly from Messrs. Stillwell and Knight, viz., The Turf Register, 
but in order to show how easy it is to give a good "tip" after a race 
is over and won.] 

Won by Tory Boy, Panic second. Time — 3 min. 44 sees. 

The hour has come. November's second day 
Sees thousands deck'd in holiday array, 
And hastening northward quit the busy town 
For Flemingtonia's bright and grassy down, 
Where Bagot's thoughtful head and busy hand 
Such wondrous alterations there have planned 
As startle all with wonder and delight, 
And make a once bright scene look still more bright. 
The road, the rail, are crowded with the rush 
From inland townships, and the farthest bush 
Sends hosts of visitors to view the scene 
About to be enacted on the green 


Smooth sward which skirts the saline river's side, \ 

Whose placid stream receives the rolling tide, > 

And back returns it to the ocean wide. / 

Saltwater River — unpoetic name — 

The silent witness of the deeds of fame 

Done by the gallant steeds in days before 

Which to the front their owners' colours bore. 

Old Petrel's name is link'd along with thine, 

The predecessor of a gallant line 

Of winners, noted for their pace and pluck, 

Staunch as the Jib, and speedy as the Buck. 

A brilliant sight shall grace thy bank to-day : 

The Melbourne Cup, the subject of my lay, 

Contended for by such a goodly field, 

Shall genuine pleasure to the sportsman yield. 

The hillside, graced by Nature's fairest forms, • 

Paddock and stand gay beauty too adorn ; 

Equine and feminine will all be there 

Our hearts to gladden and our joys to share. 

And as we glance around the merry throng, 

Expectant now with hopes deferred so long, 

The ringing bell proclaims to hearts elate 

'Tis time to saddle for the Maiden Plate. 

'Tis done, 'tis won, three cheers the victor greet, 

Maroon and gold the judge's eye first meet, 

Just one short race, five furlongs, tells the tale, 

And marks the winner of the Ascot Vale. 

A start ! a rush ! she comes on pinions full, 

And claims the prize, the dashing, smart Sea Gull. 

Eisher, let's hope thy luck has changed at last, 


That Fortune's frowns are only of the past; 

I know this wish is echoed far and near. 

And now to don the mantle of the seer. 

Tis half-past three, metallics fast are plied ; 

" Nobody names it," rings on every side, 

The list is lengthy and the field is great, 

All forms and sizes, and all sorts of weight. 

Panics and Shadows, Poets and Minstrels too, 

Mozarts and Playboys, rank and title view. 

Ellen and Rose, and Alexandra fair, 

Will tread a measure with the Viscount there. 

Angler will Frolic by the river bank. 

A Miller and a Lancer too will rank 

With Miss Victoria, and in Nightshade's bloom 

Ebor and Musidora meet their doom. 

A Songster sweet majestically moves, 

Best of his lot I'll wager that he proves; 

His sweeping stride and easy-going gait \ 

Mark him a racehorse, but it's not his fate > 

To be the winner of the silver plate. ) 

Charles Albert, emblem of a royal line, 

Will not repeat the deed of fifty-nine, 

Which skill and talent and a slice of luck 

The champion gave to once-famed Flying Buck. 

The starter's flag floats in the sunny breeze, 

The starter's eye the straggler quickly sees ; 

They take their places, range themselves in form, 

Each one preparing for the coming storm. 

They're off! Not yet; 'tis Rose, the fractious elf, 

That mars the start; together with herself, 


Some other fractious creatures stop the way, 

Loth to depart, yet eager for th' affray. 

At length away : the Rose is surely there, \ 

And Alexandra, type of lady fair, > 

The fashion leads as by the stand they tear. ) 

Ebor and Poet drive them all along 

Till past the old grand stand, when through the throng 

They slily steal, and leave a tail behind 

Which lengthens out as round the course they wind. 

The abbattoirs are passed, and now prepare 

With speed to struggle and with pluck to dare. 

The rose and black is foremost in the van, 

And still remains, prevent it if ye can. 

The Minstrel now attempts to strike his lyre, 

And Poet's lays are true poetic fire, 

As stride by stride he overhauls the lot. 

Excitement quickens as the pace grows hot. 

Now Oriflamme outstretched to catch the wind — 

Alas ! the golden standard's left behind. 

Black and all black are coming to the fore, 

Where oft in other days they've been before, 

Borne on the handsome Musidora's back, 

Mettle and game she ne'er was known to lack. 

Look out, sweet Rose, and Angler, too, beware, 

A dangerous foe's the little light-brown mare. 

Ebor is there with strong determined pace, 

Nor better steed e'er started in a race. 

But weight will tell, and dangerous though he be, 

His sister beats him, I'll lay four to three. 

Maroon and gold begin to catch the eye, 


Frolic and Lancer striving desperately. 

Wait patiently, my little game, good horse, 

Your weight is high, the pace you must not force, 

But bide your time, and all may yet be well, 

You yet may conquer Fisher's blooming Belle ; 

Your form is good, your pluck can't be denied, 

You're hard to beat when collared stride for stride. 

The little Tory Boy from Emerald Hill, 

A post of dignity strives hard to fill. 

The poll when closed, his number must go up, 

His time, three forty-four, should win the Cup. 

Sam's luck is out, and If will not be there, \ 

Nor yet can Cadland to the van bring near > 

His owner's colours; and I sadly fear ) 

With Druid's death (a loss we all deplore) 

Sam's hopes were crushed as man's ne'er were before. 

A mist surrounds me, and tis hard to see 

Among the crowd who will the victor be. 

But hark ! there's a shout as they're rounding the turn, 

How the hopes of each backer alternately burn; 

'Tis the Rose ! 'tis the Poet ! 'tis Ebor ! cries one, 

As the colours flash brilliantly out in the sun, 

There's Frolic and Lancer, maroon with the gold, 

While the names of the rest can be easily told. 

As they rush up the straight in the front of the crowd, 

They are whispered, and spoken, and shouted aloud. 

Old Tory Boy wins! Yes; the neat little grey 

Has shown them his heels for the rest of the way, 

Close followed by Panic — his number goes up, 

And three fourty-four, was the time for that Cup. 



Won by The Barb, Exile second. Time — 3 min. 43 sec. 

Oh ! for a dreamer's vision, 

Oh ! for a prophet's power, 
To see by the might of a second sight 

The future of an hour. 
Oh ! for a smoke from an old black pipe, 

Such verses to inspire, 
As came one day from a short old clay, 

In language full of fire ; 
To tell of the sports of Thursday, 

November's first gay day, 
To tell of the chances our light-weights have 

To bear the Cup away • 
To tell in truthful language 

The way The Barb will run, 
If Seagull or Miss Fisher 

Will beat John Tait's great gun; 
To tell if Fisher's luck will be 

As wretched as before, 
If, with all the blood in his noble stud, 

He is to win no more ; 
If Fisherman was but a fluke ; 

If mares like Gildermire 
Could never breed a racing steed 

By such a gallant sire ; 


If Marchioness and Cerva, 

x 7 

If Nightlight (Lantern's dam), 
Are bad and useless animals, 

Their breeding all a sham ; 
If Rose de Florence, Omen, 

And all the noble dames 
Which form a brilliant galaxy 

Of high and classic names, 
With pedigrees untainted, 

Are nothing else but weeds ; 
If, looking to the future, 

We shall approve of deeds 
Their sons and daughters will perform 

For the credit of our land, 
When they meet in force on the Melbourne course, 

Or on Botany's distant strand. 

But alas! no dreamer's vision, 

No prophet's power is mine, 
I can but very feebly guess 

Whose star is like to shine, 
If Sydney's or Tasmania's 

Will in th' ascendant be, 
Or, if in South Australians 

The victors we shall see. 
Nor can I see distinctly 

A horse whereon to fix, 
Which will justify as a prophecy 

Who wins in sixty-six; 


So I'll be content with giving, 

In a rambling kind of way, 
What a friend of mine in the rhyming line 

Has called a quiet lay — 
A lay (not by Macaulay, 

Who wrote of Ancient Rome), 
But a simple lay of the present day, 

On a subject nearer home. 

The sportsmen of Victoria 

By all their hopes have sworn 
That the Melbourne Cup from Melbourne 

Shall ne'er again be borne : 
By all their hopes they've sworn it, 

And when the day comes round, 
They mean to bring a goodly string 

Of horses young and sound. 

From far and near they'll bring them — 

Of every breed and strain, 
From the stout blood of old Melbourne, 

To the cocktail's doubtful stain ; 
And to beat the Sydney horses 

On that eventful day, 
Will all prepare the sports to share 

In the Melbourne Cup affray. 

Barb, look to your laurels, 

And Warwick, do the same ; 
Sultana and brave Volunteer, 

Both noted for yonr game, 


See that your pipes be open, 

Your legs and feet in form, 
Your muscles firm 'neath glossy skin, 

To face the approaching storm ; 
And when the starter's flag you see, 

Prepare to dash away — 
For the light-weights fly, 
''Neath the clear blue sky 

Of a bright November day. 

In serried rank they muster, 

In all the pomp and pride 
Of a gallant troop of the fleetest steeds 

Whose paces have been tried ; 
While brilliant colours flash and gleam 

In the sunshine's glorious light, 
And the golden bays and the rich dark-browns 

Contrast with the black and white ; 
And the varying tints of the chestnut skins 

Show hues which are rarely seen, 
Save when autumn grey sheds its slanting ray 

O'er a sylvan English scene. 

Now mad with wild excitement 

The light-weights lead the van, 
The Barb now makes the running, 

Now pass him those who can. 
With hocks well down, with haunches spread, 

He leaps with a greyhound's bound, 
O'er the springy turf by the river's surf 

He lightly skims the ground. 


Austral now joins Minstrel, 

And Songster's with the twain, 
Now ! Boiardo's raking sons, 

Your sire's renown maintain. 
Did not your brother Banker 

Win the same race before ? 
In sixty-three to the front went he, 

Carrying- five stone four. 

As one by one the light-weights 

Are racing at The Barb, 
He shakes them off, they come again 

In many a varied garb \ 
Old Barwon with his eight stone seven, 

Dun Dolo's seven stone five, 
Will make the race a slashing pace, 

And keep the game alive. 

Ashworth steadies Warwick, 

And Redman holds The Sign, 
Miss Fisher's right with Carter up, 

And joins the foremost line. 
Now, Fisher, show thy breeding, 

Let Omen's daughters come 
With a glimpse of the fire which their grand old sire 

Once let them See at home. 

Now, the hum of voices 

Swells loud into a roar, 
As more than thirty gallant steeds, 

(A sight ne'er seen before), 
1 2 


In double row careering 

To the goal they all would gain, 
Sweeping along in clusters 

Over the level plain. 
They reach the straight, and echo 

Repeats The Barb, Seagull, 
And the Sydney don still holds his own, 

While Barwon takes a pull. 

On, on they come together, 

The Barb and Keighran's bay, 
The light bay horse with stockings, 

And Cieeland's little gray. 
We've seen the light-weights win before, 

We've seen them go the pace, 
And Toryboy was his owner's joy, 

When he won this self-same race. 
Now, Warwick, do your utmost, 

Your country's fame preserve, 
It has been your wont to go in front, 

And never flinch or swerve. 

The excitement grows intense, 

As nearer still they come, 
Like a distant whirlwind sweeping, 
" With a dim and stifled hum. 
Now for the proud supremacy : 

Can we not hold our own? 
Must Sydney win, mid the noise and din, 

Which has into a Babel grown ? 


Ho ! for a gallant champion, 

Ho ! for a Mormon bold, 
A Lantern bring, and his praise I'll sing, 

If hell win as he did of old. 

Trainers, now comes the moment 

When all your skill's required, 
When muscle, wind, and form must show 

All that can be desired. 
Now is the time when blood will tell, 

And weight will have its force, 
As the nostrils wide send forth a tide 

Of steam from each gallant horse ; 
And the heaving flank speaks volumes, 

And tells if the work's been done 
Which will make the steed in the time of need 

In the front rank bravely run. 

Nor legs nor feet must falter, 

No soreness of the shins, 
Nor staleness now must e'er exist, 

Or rough and wiry skins ; 
The sloping shoulder, ragged hip, 

The quarter long or wide, ' 
The neck quite firm, the muscles hard 

Beneath the glossy hide; 
The gleaming eye which flashes forth 

Sparks of electric fire, 
Will never fail to tell the tale, 

" There's a horse you cannot tire." 


Meanwhile the strife grows thicker, 

As gallantly they bound, 
And Seagull rushing onward, 

Seems scarce to touch the ground. 
Now Yuille is in high feather, 

As Toryboy he sees 
(With colours gaily gleaming), 

Sniffing the foremost breeze : 
With bended neck and outstretched legs, 

He pulls with might and main, 
For the little grey is well that day. 

Though he ne'er be right again. 

Now, who that's for Victoria, 

And champions her cause, 
Would like to see her win the Cup 

Midst thunders of applause, 
Will not forget fair Helen's son 

And all his deeds of yore, 
How he won the Cup 
With seven stone up. 

How he carries but eight pounds more? 
With what ease he beat his horses, 

With lots of weight to spare, 
And among the three 
Which will foremost be, 

We must look for this little stayer. 


Now anxious hearts are beating 

As through the crowd they fly, 
A Falcon to the rescue, 

A Barwon waits hard by. 
And now The Barb is coming, 

That little big black horse, 
He comes with fierce determined air 

Along the green clad course — 
A glorious race, The Barb is first, 

And waving hats proclaim 
The race is done, John Tait has won, 

His little hero's game ! 
And when at future races 

The sportsmen of to-day 
Are spoken of by racing men, 

Quoting this self-same lay; 
And bookmakers and backers 

Refer to days gone by, 
When Sydney vied with Melbourne, 

In friendly rivalry, — 
They will tell of Taifs good horses, 

The Barb and Falcon bold, 
Of Warwick and of Volunteer, 

And their brave deeds of old. 

And in the days of summer, 
When hot winds from the north 

Send whirling clouds of blinding dust 
Careering madly forth; 


When at some Champion Meeting 

Is heard the usual din, 
Of " I'll lay six to four you don't 

Name which horse is to win." 

When the " Number 2 w keeps popping, 

And the glasses sparkle bright 
Around John Cleeland's table, 

On some future settling night ; 
They will talk about the Demon, 

Who was worth his weight in gold, 
And the race then won 
By the gallant son 

Of Sir Hercules of old. 

When the owner of each racehorse 

Will look with pride upon 
The racing of his ancestors 

With John Tait's favourite one; 
How stable-boys and jockeys 

Will wonder, when they're told 
What a brilliant horse 
First passed the post, 

In that gallant race of old. 



Woii by The Barb ; Volunteer second. Time — 5 *un» 3& sees. 

Now vanquished is our Exile, 

Who strove to win the Cup, 
Not one of all our light-weights 

Could keep our prestige up. 
Gone is the fiat forth again, 

With shouting and midst din, 
The Melbourne Cup to Sydney ! 

Victoria could not win. 

To-day no sound of business 

Is heard throughout the land, 
The shopman leaves his counter, 

The cabman leaves his stand; 
The ring of trowel is not heard, 

The anvil's noise is still, 
For the citizens will meet to-day 

At the Champion, by the hill. 

And every Melbourne denizen 

Hath donned his best to-day, 
And all the Melbourne ladies 

Appear in bright array; 
Their cheerful smiling faces, 

Their kindly winning ways, 
Make glad the sky above us 

On the best of Champion days. 


Full seven years have rolled o'er us, 

Eleven Champions run — 
(The twelfth and last in Melbourne, 

To-day has to be won) — 
Since first the speedy Flying Buck 

Made a glorious run away, 
And thousands there gave a deafening cheer 

On the first great Champion Day. 

The river saw the finish, 

The Buck in full career, 
With Zoe running second, 

And Nutwith very near ; 
Old Alice badly beaten, 

Strop fourth, but far away 
From the winner of the Champion Race 

On the first great Champion Day. 

Now the twelfth and last is near us; 

Right pleasant ; tis to see 
Such a goodly throng assembled, 

Such a joyous company, 
To welcome in the new year, 

To pass the hours away, 
And see who wins the Champion Race 

On the last great Champion Day. 

It is a goodly sight, I ween, 

To see the nags come forth ; 
The grey from South Australia, 

Two fleet steeds from the north, 


Sister and brother, youthful pair, 

Are walking side by side ; 
Marching along from Marybyrnong, 

Victoria's pick and pride. 

See, on the right walks Fishhook, 

With bold, determined air ; 
He proudly bears the white and blue, 

As a Fisherman should bear 
Those colours which have always run 

To victory or defeat, 
With honesty to try to win, 

Or honestly get beat. 

And on his left steps Seagull, 

A gallant raking mare, 
With a Melbourne head and Melbourne ears, 

And parti-coloured hair; 
A head denoting gameness, 

Such as a racehorse wears, 
E'en such an one her grandsire owned, 

And her dam still proudly bears. 

Behind them stride the Sydney pair, 

The Barb and Volunteer; 
Behind them Cowra walks alone, 

The rest — the rest ! Ah, where ? 
Where are the rest ? Where is the field 

Which once appeared so strong? 
Alas, like many a gallant horse, 

It's vanished with the throng. 


So the five are left contending, 

And the five can make a race, 
And the Sydney two, and Fisher's two, 

Will strive for pride of place. 
But Cowra (so the prophets say) 

By no earthly chance can hope 
For the honour of the winner's name 

With the Sydney pair to cope. 

So the five marched on quite proudly 

Before the lawn and stand, 
And the thousands gathered on the hill 

Their action closely scanned. 

At the paddock gate an old man stands, 

He stands at the iron-clad gate; 
And when Seagull approaches 

His heart is all elate ; 
Hail ! daughter of a famous sire, 

Old Omen's daughter, hail! 
The best of a glorious family, 

Thy breeding shall not fail. 

Thy form was made for racing, 

Thy heart is good and true, 
The bounding of thy wondrous stride 

Is a sight we rarely view ; 
And the flashing wire shall spread throughout 

This great colonial isle 
Thy wondrous fame, and thy sire's great name 

Preserve from slanders vile. 


Be like unto old Fisherman, 

Thy gallant sire so good, 
Be like the dam who suckled thee 

With the pure Melbourne blood : 
Leave to the sons of meaner sires 

Their handicaps, and claim 
No race but what is weight for age 

As worthy of thy name. 

Thy father loved the racecourse, 

The cracking whip loved he ; 
He loved to hear the wild shouts 

That hailed his victory ; 
He loved a mile, could stay his three, 

And never shirked the four. 
Such was thy sire. To us again 

His likeness you restore. 

Would, Seagull, that the Champion, 

The Champion race were thine, 
Thine the proud honour to sustain 

The prestige of thy line \ 
And in the last great struggle, 

You might triumph up the straight, 
But, oh, a clever, dangerous foe 

You're meeting in John Tait. 

Cowra will race against thee, 

From the land of wine and wheat, 
But her friends will all acknowledge 

She has met a great defeat. 


The Barb shall race against thee, 

The best colt in the land, 
Beside him an old hero, 

Named Volunteer, shall stand ; 
Thy brother, Fishhook, too, will try 

To be revenged that day 
For the beating once sustained by him 

From the Barb near Botany Bay. 

Hurrah ! then, for the triumph 

Old Fisherman has gained, 
Hurrah for his sons and daughters 

Who have his fame maintained; 
For Smuggler and for Sour Grapes, 

The Lady and Seagull, 
They have stamped his name on the scroll of fame 

And filled his measure full. 

And carping critics still may write, 

And call them leggy weeds, 
Their railing will not make them so, 

And words can't alter deeds; 
And deeds there yet will be performed 

By Fisherman's younger sons, 
Which will make the hair of his critics stare, 

Where the river slowly runs. 

But not to-day's thy triumph, 

John Tait is far too good ; 
His luck is in, you cannot win 

Against such form and blood. 


The colt that you must meet to-day 

Appears in sable garb, 
And a stauncher steed with greater speed 

Ne'er walked than the gallant Barb. 


Won by Tim Whiffler; Queen of Hearts second. Time — 3 min. 39 sees. 

While musing near the waters 

Of Corio's glassy bay, 
When You Yangs' rising summits 

In the golden sunset lay, 
At whose feet the plains were dotted 

With myriads of sheep, 
And the mellow light seemed lulling , 

All creation into sleep. 

The croaking of the bull-frog, 

The locusts' chirping song, 
Made music with the gentle wind 

Which breathed so soft among 
The broad leaves of the lightwood, 

And the shiyak's russet cones, 
Like a chorus sung by nature 

In most harmonious tones. 


And I heard in every cadence 

Which sweetly died away, 
The murmuring of voices in 

The air, which seemed to say, — 
Come, and we will show you, 

And it will delight your heart, 
The gallant steeds of high renown, 

Which for the Cup will start. 

Then my fancy was bewildered 
In a dreamy kind of mood : 

I imagined that at Flemington 
On Thursday next I stood. 

And saw the five-and-twenty steeds 

In front of Watson's eye. 
He lowers his flag; with light'ning speed 

Away at once they fly, 
And Falcon bounding to the front, 

Leads all along the straight, 
Old Barwon closely follows him, 

Delighted with his weight. 

And a sound like cattle rushing, 

Through the air there seems to hum, 
As tearing wildly by the stand 

So furiously they come, 
All eager to be round the turn, 

And reach the river's side, 
Where Exile and the gallant Barb 

Went dashing stride for stride. 


And as they round another turn, 

The chestnut keeps the lead, 
Who beats the little horse to-day, 

May glory in the deed ; 
With a dash of foot, a nice light weight, 

He can outstrip the wind, 
And leave a host of duffers there 

All straggling far behind. 

And while he still keeps leading, 

They near the abattoirs, 
And shouts for Tait and Sydney swell 

To wild delirious roars, 
When from the ruck the Queen steals up, 

And reaches Barwon's flank; 
Australia's Rose then shows her nose 

Among the foremost rank, 
With Fireworks, too, and Sydney Tim, 

While Morrison on Craig's 
Steadies the white-nosed golden bay, 

Whose courage never flags. 

Now Tim he passes Falcon 

When coming to the turn, 
Which leads into the straight run home, 

We very soon shall learn. 
See what a gallant struggle 

; Twixt Queen of Hearts and Tim, 
The Sydney horse maintains the lead, 

It does not ruffle him ; 


His feet are well, his legs are steel, 

His muscles firm as cord, 
And like a racehorse see him bound 

Along the grassy sward. 

What lazy brute is that which comes ? 

Passing so many by, 
By Jove, it is that beautiful 

And honest mare, The Fly. 
Now Whiffler, now great Fireworks, 

Look for the final push, 
For Queen of Hearts is bound to come 

With a tremendous rush. 

She comes too late, — with splendid speed 
Tim Whiffier keeps the lead 

And the pride of place ; and wins the race, 
While shouting crowns the deed. 




Glencoe Ji7'st, Strop second. Time — 3 min. 42 sec. 

The rich golden sunset is glowing 

On casements o'er Emerald Hill, 
Rare tints on each window bestowing, 

Gem-sparkling the barracks and mill; 
The banks and the flats by the river 

Are flashing with fire from the rays 
Which dart from Apollo's bright quiver 

As he sinks beneath headlands and bays : 
The masts and the spars of the shipping 

Are fringed by his fast-fading light, 
While below the horizon is dipping 

His orb so resplendently bright. 
The Queen of the night is now sailing 

In beauty, though dim for a while, 
And the stars o'er the daylight prevailing 

Are faintly beginning to smile. 
And a star-gazing fancy comes o'er me; 

Like one of the prophets of old, 
I read in the planets before me 

Events which shall now be foretold 
Of the twenty-four steeds which are mounted, 

And eager to start for the Cup, 
The number which there will be counted, 

With riders all ready and up, 


For the race on the fifth of November, 

In colours of rainbow-like hue. 
What a sight to behold and remember, 

That phalanx of steeds good and true, 
At the sound of the starter's " Get ready;" 

" Keep back, boys, I'll fine you f " Hold hard ;' : 
" Off;" away they all dash ; now, then, steady 

The top weights along the green sward. 
The light-weight division is led by 

Old Barwon, who bounds like a ball, 
And Lantern is close to his head by 

The stand as they tear one and all. 
Tim Whiffler and Warrior are waiting, 

With Little Fish just in his front ; 
Mary Ann and The Fly going straight in 

The ruck as they near the old punt. 
Now the abbattoirs gained, Glencoe's leading, 

And keeps the same place the whole way, 
For honest and true to his breeding, 

He cannot be beaten that day. 



Hurdle Race — Prince Alfred first, Elis second. Fletnington Stakes — Charon first, 
Ferry 77ian second. Derby — My Dream first, Antelope second. Midstimmer 
Handicap — Gasworks first, PJiosphorus second. Port Phillip Stakes — The 
Barb first, Glencoe second. Steeple Chase — Viking first, Ballarat second. 
Fifty Pound Plate — Palladium first, Salem Scudder second. 

Once more in the fair field of rhyming, 

Again on a hackneyed old theme, 
My muse makes an effort at climbing 

Parnassus' height in a dream. 
There are dreams which defy all description, 

And some which are doubtful, some wild, 
If you don't believe dreams for a tip, shun 

These lines, they're but weakly and mild. 
While the yule log at Christmas is hissing 

In bonny old England's fair isle, 
Where the mistletoe hangs o'er the kissing, 

And friend welcomes friend with a smile; 
The ice and the snow and the hoar-frost 

Are crisping and gemming the earth, 
And the winds through the naked woods roar, lost 

In distance ; the fire on the hearth 
Burns brightly, the lamps from the ceiling 

Shine brilliantly over fair dames, 
And melody, mirth, and good feeling 

Are mingled with old Christmas games ; 
While the spiced wine is just on the simmer, 

The bells rouse the still midnight air, 


The stars on the spangled snow glimmer, 

In scene that's surpassingly fair. 
We have changed from the frost to the sunshine, 

From snow to a scorching hot wind ; 
I would if I could (just in one line) 

Describe all the sports we here find, 
Our out-of-door revels and rambles, 

'Neath blue skies and light fleecy clouds, 
Our picnics, our races, our gambols, 

Our mirth-seeking, holiday crowds. 

The racecourse, the bay, and the river, 

The first of the coming new year, 
When the breeze makes the gay bunting quiver, 

When beauty and fashion appear 
In colours so brilliantly blending 

Their tints with the sun's flashing light, 
And thousands are anxiously wending 

Their way on to Flemington height. 

To behold what I saw in a dreamy-like vision, 

One night after supping on onions and tripe ; 
The allusion is stale, but don't laugh with derision, 

For visions ere now have been seen through a pipe, 
At least through the fumes which arose from a clay one,. 

Emitted by one who can write and can ride, 
And whose form, if he's well on the forthcoming day, on 

The little horse Viking will there be astride. 


I dreamt I had strolled away down to the beach, where 

The battery stands by the sand-girded sea, 
And as far as the range of the vision could reach, there 

I watched the white foam of the waves on my lee. 
I scanned the horizon all round me quite closely, 

A boat with a sail met my wandering sight, 
And a voice shouting loud said in tones quite morosely, 

"All aboard for a sail ! look alive ! it's all right !" 

" Keep her head for the river, and silently wander 

Away to where Footscray looks sullenly down, 
Away to the crowd which is gathering yonder, 

Shape her course o'er the bay by the small fishing town." 
We now near the racecourse, we hear the crowd hallo, 

The Race over Hurdles, the first on the card, 
Was won by Prince Alfred; (the favourite Dolo 

Was nowhere) but Elis has pressed him quite hard. 

For the Flemington Stakes I have dreamt about Charon, 

He moves with such ease, in such grand sweeping style ; 
The Derby I thought would be won by a mare, on 

Which I have ventured my very small pile ; 
Yet both horse and mare are descended directly 

From Fisherman, so (by the talent) despised, 
And doubtless they all will at once just elect me 

A fool for my pains, but I shan't be surprised, 

If I see his descendants run home first and second 
In both of the races which I have just named; 

I have looked o'er the names, and I've quietly reckoned 
My tip on the two won't be very much blamed, 



When My Dream and the Boatman run first for the Derby, 
And Charon and Derby the Two-year-old stake, 

Though Charon, 'tis said, is a little bit curby, 
The rest will be forced to run home in his wake. 

The act is now changed, and the little " Black Demon" 

Comes forward with Fireworks, with Glencoe and Strop, 
A famous quartet for a fellow to dream on ; 

For Sydney the prize is a nice little sop. 
The Port Phillip Stakes proves a terrible failure 

As far as a race goes, I venture to state ; 
Victorian horseowners, bemoan and bewail your 

Most truly unhappy, lamentable fate. 

Not a horse in the land that can cope with the Walers, 

Alas ! not a Fishhook to shorten the odds. 
Our trainers, they say, are no better than tailors, 

Our breeders are also all bested ! Ye gods ! 
Is there nothing at all can be done to retrieve the 

Lost laurels which for a brief season we wore ; 
Can we make no attempt in the world to relieve the 

Whole land from the stigma once, only once more ? 

Must we always (contented, alas !) cry Peccavi, 

We're beaten, we're beaten, and meekly give in? 
O tempora ! O mores I in pity, pray save. I 

Am thinking we never must, never can win; 
5 Tis plain that this time we are getting a beating. 

What wins ? I don't know, but allow me to state, 
On the first of the year, on the morn of the meeting, 

You've only to question the clever John Tait. 


For the race which we know we can really excel in, 

The big one o'er sticks, I must think, let me see 
If I can, from the style of the Handicap, tell in 

A very few lines who the winner will be. 
There are Ballarat, Blue Jacket, Bacchus, and Barmaid, 

With Babbler, The Baron, and bonny Brunette, 
Ballarat with his weight is the principal star, made 

First fav'rite, and four to one all you can get. 

They say he can win, notwithstanding his weight, yet 

While Babbler and Viking remain in the race, 
Tho' a wonderful horse, and he always goes straight, yet 

I scarcely can think he'll run into a place. 
Not to bother my readers, and shorten my story 

For the honour of winning or being close up, 
I shall look to friend Gordon to add to his glory, 

And place this great prize with the last Hunt Club Cup. 

A tip for the seventh and last, in conclusion, 

As homeward we shortly are destined to start, 
I In the bustle and noise, in the rush and confusion, 

Of ladies and carriages as they depart. 
Ere we turn our boat round by the oar and the rudder, 

Or push her off gently out into the stream, 
Palladium has won, Number two's Salem Scudder, 

And thus ends the story I saw in my dream. 

; I've now told you all I could learn of the meeting, 
And closed my remarks with the Fifty-pound Plate ; 

\llow me to wish you a happy year's greeting, 
Success attend racing and those who run straight ! 


May the best horses win, and though Sydney has licked us, 
And taken our prizes, let's wish them good speed, 

And say, if you've licked us, you also have pricked us, 
We'll meet you, and meet you, until we succeed. 

If I know the men at the head of our racing, 

They're not of the stamp to cave cowardly in, 
If they don't get a prize, they can lose with good grace, in 

The knowledge they have that they all cannot win. 
" Better luck the next time" is the motto to cling to, 

" Hope on" is the food which keeps sportsmen alive, 
And coolness and judgment are certain to bring to 

The genuine sportsman success if he'll strive. 

Dece77iber 21, 1868. 



Won by Warrior, Strop second. Time — ynin. Apsec. 

Touchstone, ould bhoy, oi've bin thinkin' 

Yeed p'raps loike a bit ov a tip, 
Begorra, I'll do't loike winkin', 

The sorra a chance I'll let shlip. 
Faix, havn't oi put an me money, 

An' can't yez be doin' that same, 
It's myself has been touting, me honey, 

An' shpotted a noice little game. 


Oi wint at the top ov the mornin', 

Bedad but before it was loight, 
Mick Byrne and meself got the warning 

Betoken we shtopped up all noight ; 
We wint to the coorse an the quoiet, 

They didn't expect us at all, 
An' whin we cum purty well noigh it, 

We shkulked (Mick and oi) at the wall. 

An' now*; d'ye moind what I tell yez ? 

Tim drags out his grandfather's watch. 
Now, listen! Oim not goin to sell yez ! 

Yez musn't take me for a botch. 
We marked down the Milboorn Cup winner, 

His weight's eight stone ten by the card. 
Its thrue, or bedad I'm no sinner, 

It's Warrior ! hurroo ! houlding hard. 



Won by Nimblefoot, Lapdog second. Time — ynin. y}sec. 

Grey grows the first gleam of the morning, 

The nightrack has vanished away, 
The stars hide their heads as a warning 

To herald the forthcoming day. 


The sky is serene in its splendour, 
The clouds from the azure have flown, 

And Nature seems glad to surrender 
Herself to-day all her own. 

And crowds gather gaily together, 

Forgetting the quick pouring rain; 
Rejoiced at the sight of fine weather, 

They stroll off to Flemington plain. 
By rail and by road how they muster 

In paddock, on hill-side and course, 
In groups on the lawn how they cluster, 

Discussing the chance of each horse. 

The stand glitters gay with glad faces, 

The grass wears its loveliest green, 
And beauty, as fair as the Graces, 

Gives life to a living life scene. 
The sheen of the satin-skinned horses 

Breaks flashingly forth in the sun, 
The bell for the mustering of forces 

Proclaims the day's sport has begun. 

The judge has pronounced on "The Maiden," 

" The Railway" has also been won. # 
Each horse with his proper weight laden 

Prepares for the next race to run. 
The canter that's needful is taken 

In front of a crowd of bright eyes, 
And voices of bookmakers waken 

The echoes all round to the skies. 


" I'll lay again anything," loudly 

Rings forth on the pure balmy air, 
" There's nobody names it," as proudly 

Peals out to the crowd everywhere. 
" I want to lay odds against Praetor," 

11 Sir William," "The Monk," or "Sir John," 
" Barbelle," or "Milesian/' the cratur; 

" I'll lay again Strop. Are you on?" 

Such sounds meet the ear 'mid the bustle 

And din of a Melbourne Cup day, 
But no one can tell till the tussle 

Is over, who bears it away. 
Whether Winch with his Croydon can win it, 

Or Tait with his talent can land, 
If Cleeland can claim to be in it, 

Or say if Lee's chances will stand. 

They're off ! Up the straight they come bounding, 

Along at the top of their speed. 
The stand's passed ! The corner they're ro unding, 

And Lapdog and Nimblefoot lead. 
Freetrader is with Farmer's Daughter, 

The light-weights are all going fast, 
The buildings are passed where they slaughter, 

Too quickly, the pace cannot last. 

There's Croydon and Warrior together, 

Tim Whiffler holds yet a good place, 
He feels the effects of the weather, 

Or " good-bye" for the rest of the race. 


His stable companion's extending 
Himself, but his jockey holds hard 

As over the saddle he's bending; 
He's riding a racehorse trump card. 

They've passed by the sheds in a cluster, 

Though many are left in the rear, 
And smaller in front is the muster 

As nearer they come and more near. 
Still Lapdog and Nimblefoot lead them, 

Their light weight is serving their stead, 
The spring of the turf too must speed them, 

And Nimblefoot wins by a head. 

— >^« — 

W071 by Pearl, Romula second. Time — 3 min. 39 sees. 

With eyelids opening wide, 

With ears distended to catch 

E'en the slightest sound, may the touts be seen 

Moving about on the watch. 

Tout, tout, tout! 
With the sunrise they are there; 
And when the evening shadows fall 
To the racecourse they repair. 


Tout, tout, tout! 
Before the cocks awake ; 

Tout, tout, tout ! 
Ere the day begins to break. 

It's fine to be a tout, 

And watch them do their work, 

To see which horses stand the test, 

And which their gallops shirk. 

Tout, tout, tout! 
As they canter over the tan ; 

Tout, tout, tout ! 
The manoeuvre of horse and man. 
Gallop, canter, and walk; 
Walk, and gallop, and trot! 
Till every pace of every horse 
Quite perfect the tout has got. 

O ! men who mean to bet ! 
O ! men who want to win ! 
Don't listen to all the tips you get 
Or you will be let in. 
Tout, tout, tout ! 
As much as you like you may, 
And when you have witnessed all you can 
Youll be wiser on the day — 

The day of the Race I mean, 
That day which will be the proof 
Of the goodly state of condition and limb, 
As well as the fleetness of hoof. 


As well as the fleetness of hoof, 
Their gameness will then be tried 
With the clashing whip and the dashing spur, 
As they struggle side by side. 

Tout, tout, tout! 
In November's early light; 

And tout, tout, tout ! 
When the sun is shining bright. 
While underneath the roof 
Of Mrs. M'Lay is seen 
A number of touts, looking about, 
With glasses over the green. 

Oh ! if they did but know 

What horse was sure to win! 

If Lang was safe with old Glencoe, 

Or Crook with Saladin; 

If Wilson would be in form 

With Lapdog or a mare ; 

If Tait with Pyrrhus would be first, 

Or Cleolite be there. 

Oh ! but it's hard to guess 

What horse will win the Cup, 
No tout can tell whether horse or mare, 

Till he sees the figures up. 
A little guess may perhaps be made — 

"When the race is over and won, 
John Tait's good training has done the trick 

With the Pearl, new Warrior's son." 


With eyelids opening wide, 
With ears distended to catch 
E'en the slightest sound, may the touts be seen 
Moving about on the watch. 

Tout, tout, tout! 
With the sunrise they are there, 
And when the evening shadows fall 
On touters short and touters tall, 
To the racecourse they are near. 


I reside close by a stable, and they call me Touting Dick, 
For I daily watch the horses, and I'm up to every trick ; 
But when they come the double, or attempt to play on me, 
Like William Nye to Truthful James, I say, " Jim, can this 

I have crept within the ditches, I have skulked about the 

walls ] 
I've sneaked around the stables, and I've been among the 

stalls ; 
I have dodged the scraping sheds around, and loitered near 

the tan ; 
And you can bet I know as much as any other man. 



I've seen the string of William Lang, Glencoe as well as 

And know when they will gallop or when they'll stay at 

And Pyrrhus, Pearl, and Little Dick are very closely 

While Lord of Linn is seen by me alone, or when he's 

Barbelle and Baron never breathe their early morning 

But my two eyes behold them go, as well as Joseph's pets ; 
For Praetor never prances forth, and Saladin ne'er sails, 
But I am close behind their backs to see their trembling tails ; 
And Warrior never sallies forth, nor Rambler ever roves, ^ 
To taste the morning breezes in the Ascot valley groves; 
And Cleolite ne'er canters by, and Niinblefoot ne'er moves > 
But Touting Dick is with theni all, and knows their every 

And knowing this, I think I knows what horse will win the 

And there is one among the lot I have not mentioned yet 
I look upon with loving eyes, she's such a darling pet, 
Though Lapdog, her companion, is a highly dangerous horse, 
I look to see her leading when they struggle up the course. 
And hats are waved, and shouts are raised, and "Romula!" 

they cry — 
Hurrah! for such a gallant mare and Wilson's victory ! 

* Richard was wrong. The Pearl won, with Romula second. 
Time — 3mm. 39sec. 




Won by The Quack, The Ace second. Time — 3 viin. 39 sees. 

On the hill, in the paddock for saddling, to-morrow the 
people assemble, 
For at three will George Watson, the starter, despatch at 
the fall of his flag, 
All the fleet steeds that gather together, to start with a rush 
and a scramble, 
A phalanx of high-blooded horses, as fierce and as fleet 
as the light-footed stag. 

How the colours flash forth in the sunlight, from thousands 
of gay, gleaming dresses, 
A parterre of the most brilliant poppies seems the newly- 
made, wide-spreading lawn, 

As beauty and fashion display the rich hues of their 
marvellously mingling tresses, 

. And shed a bright lustre around the fair scene, as the 
sun flecks the gold-spangled dawn. 

i Tis the pride and the pick of the staunchest, most earnest, 
and best of our breeders, 
Which meet in the forthcoming struggle, which thousands 
assemble to-morrow to see, 
When the test will be made as to who, 'mong our different 
trainers and feeders, 
Will bear off in triumph the coveted Cup — whether 
Sydney the victor will be. 

L 2 


Come forth from the paddock for saddling, all the bright- 
blooded horses that muster 
(When the signal is hoisted for starting) in the ken of the 
starter's quick eye, 
And the hum of the crowd from the groups on the hill and 
the flat, as they cluster, 
Swells out to a roar, as the score of brave horses draw 
near and pass speedily by. 

The pace of the Sydney-bred Dagworth will fairly be tested, 

from starting to ending, 

When the speedy Contessa, and Dolphin, old Vagabond's 

daughters, shall race by his side ; 

And the colours of Coldham and Tait will be seen near the 

front, gaily blending 

With the gold and the green of the Ace, who bounds o'er 

• the ground with magnificent stride. 

Now, who wins ? Is it Dagworth, or Pyrrhus, or Ace ? Is. 

speedy Contessa a stayer ? 

The white and blue spots are well forward; and Dolphin 

is game and lies down to her work, 

Early Morn breaks away, through the ruck, like a bird, or 

an arrow dividing the air — 

Irish King's in the race, and the blood of his sire won't 

allow him the contest to shirk. 

On they rush ! When the last turn is rounded, the hot 
breath comes thicker and faster, 
And the struggle grows fierce and exciting, as rowels ! 
pierce delicate skins, 


Contessa still leads as they come up the straight. All in 
vain ! There's a horse has gone past her, 
The yellow and black are borne well to the front, and 
my tip is that little Quack wins ! 



Won by Don yuan, DagivortJi second. Tinie — 3 min. 36 sec. 

Just thirteen short years have passed o'er us, 

They seem like a shadow gone by, 
Since Archer the great flashed before us 

And won the first Cup — with a sigh 
We saw him depart with the second, 

We watched his most marvellous stride, 
And none who e'er saw him but reckoned 

A racehorse was wrapped in his hide. 

And then came the third won by Banker, 

The fourth by a Lantern was lit, 
A game little horse ! what a spanker 

He led them whene'er he was fit. 
Old Toryboy's year was the next one, 

The next the Black Demon appeared, 
Tim's followed — and then — oh, it vex'd one 

To see how our sportsmen were scared. 


When Tait made his mind up to win it, 

And did so with gallant Glencoe, 
Not one of them claimed to be in it. 

Nor e'en had the ghost of a show. 
Then Warrior (another South Waler) 

Continued to keep up the funk, 
And pale grew their lips and still paler, 

When he ran home in front of the Monk. 

The tenth showed Tasmania victorious, 

The time was the fastest yet known; 
The finish was something most glorious, 

By Lapdog and Nimblefoot shown. 
The Pearl and the Quack won the next two- 

Both owned by the clever John Tait, 
And now I am sadly perplex'd to 

Pick out the next winner — but wait, 

While I ponder awhile on to-morrow, 

And make a few guesses thereon ; 
To many the day will bring sorrow 

When the race of the season is won. 
But who is to win is the question. 

Sir Hercules ? well, p'raps he may, 
I venture to make a suggestion 

That may be of use on the day : 

His colt's in fine form, has no weight on, 
Then let him go right to the front, 

And keep there till fair in the straight run ; 
And then if he bear well the brunt, 


Of a neck and neck race with Don Juan, 

And Dagworth, he's certain to win, 
But No ! they are putting the screw on, 

And Byron's bold hero is in. 

Aye ! in well in front, and will stay there ; 

In fact, it's a clean run away, 
And the thousands assembled will say, there 

Was ne'er seen so grand a Cup-day 
As that which saw Wilson the winner, 

And Thompson accomplish the coup, 
So cleverly too — not a keener 

Or smarter thing e'er was put through. 





' Mr. G. Paton Smith here left his place on the Ministerial side of the House, crossed 
the floor, and seated himself on the front Opposition bench." — Vide Argus> 
December 2, 1870. 

J HE House had met, and in a pet Smith thus addressed 
the Chair, 
"Now, Sir/' said he, quite furiously, "let Govern- 
ment beware; 
What is their game ? They're much to blame ; they've left 

their little Bill, 
I said, you know, some time ago, 'twould be a bitter pill. 

" Is this the way that Michie may abandon clause by clause ? 
Now, Sir, when I brought forward my own measure, did I 

With anxious gaze, to see the ways the cat inclined to jump ? 
No, Sir, my style was free from guile, I didn't care a dump." 

Up rose the Chief to give relief to passion's pent-up flame ; 
With visage red, hair straight on head, his colour went and 

came ; 
"Ye gods, what's this?" with frenzied hiss, loud shouted 

the bold Knight ; 
" Avaunt ! Begone ! Leave me alone ! For ever quit my 



" False friend — and o'er the Chamber floor pray take your 

graceful form, 
And there abide, by Longmore's side, through many a 

howling storm." 
Then Smith stalked o'er the Chamber floor, and grinned a 

pleasant grin ; 
Crying out, " Oh bliss ! such happiness I have not felt within 

"This manly breast for years at least. My heart is all on fire; 
Sir James to-night, to my delight, has granted my desire; 
And now will be 'twixt him and me the struggle for this 

But I foretell, and know full well, his doom dates from this 


" Should we in state at some far date erect a statue fine, 
Be mine the task (no more I ask) the basement to design : 
With due respect I will select Old Hats of every make, 
Except the one they call in fun the well known wide-awake." 

Now mark the stare of David Blair, with withering rage 

he riles, 
As bye-and-bye he gets the eye through which the Chairman 

'What bunkum's this, what's gone amiss?" roars David 

' The coward there with trembling fear goes off quite 



With anger pale then uprose Vale, and fixed his wicked eye 
On David's form, and with a storm of bitter savagery — 
" Ha, ha I" said he, "my memory has been at active work, 
And I know one in times bygone (the charge he cannot 

" Who for vile pay, so much per day, the temperance van 

would steer, 
And then at night got very tight on a la Carlisle beer ; 
Who slandered men with wicked pen, and then got his 

With some vile blows, not on his nose, nor out of kind 


Eternal smash, there'll be a crash, the adjectives shall fly, 
" Oh ! poltroon, liar,^-my blood's on fire ! your taunts I 

here defy." 
"You're drunk," says Vale, "on Wild's pale ale, or hail 

from Yarra Bend." 
"Ye gods !" gasps Blair, "I pant for air, oh! where is this 

to end !" 

True Christians these (or what you please), they seem a 

loving pair, 
They pant for breath, are pale as death, and rend with yells 

the air, 
The people say, and well they may, in converse one with 

" 'Tis pleasant now to witness how these Christians love each 




NO. i. 

Which in Parliament House 

On a recent debate 
(Showing great lack of nous) 

I would wish to relate 
What occurred in that august Assembly 

In language quite simple and straight. 

Which it can't be denied 

By those Parliament men, 
That whate'er may be tried 

By the might of the pen 
To check them in gabble or talking 

Is useless, they're at it again. 

When some one gets up 

And commences to speak : 
I'll defy you to cope 

With the words in a week, 
They are jammed so one into the other ; 

But then he his gentle and meek. 

And when Casey, J. J. 

In his dignified style, 
And dogmatical way, 

With a bland look and smile, 
Dilates on the Bill that's Permissive, 

What bunkum it is all the while. 


For there's Cohen, that's Ted, 

Don't believe in a word 
Of what Casey has said 

On the Bill I've referred 
To above : it is called the Permissive ; 

He'll oppose it, he says, like a bird. 

And Walsh, too, as well 

(It is Fred'ric I mean), 
Which no language can tell 

How his feelings so keen 
Will prompt him to kick out the measure ; 

There'll be a great struggle, I ween. 

As I mean to be round 

Just to gaze on the scene, 
I'll be easily found 

Where the row is most keen ; 
Though I reckon they'll turn out the stranger, 

As the case has in former times been. 

If they don't, then next week 

I will make a few notes 
On the members who speak, 

And which way go their votes, 
Respecting the Bill that's Permissive, 

That " Bill" on which Casey so doats. 


NO. II. 

'Twas on Wednesday night last, 

I am free to assert, 
A most splendid repast, 

(Or I might say dessert) 
Was provided by two of the members, 

But the words used I dare not insert 

In your paper to-day, 

It would not be polite. 
In an indirect way 

I perhaps may invite 
You to think on the lamb-like expressions 

Made use of by some one that night. 

Which by 'tother provoked, 

How his hair stood on end, 
Like a cat when she's stroked 

The wrong way by a friend ; 
And his face was quite white-like with passion, 

Where scorn, rage, and hate seemed to blend. 

It's refreshing to hear 

From these eminent men 
The kind words which endear, 

And which never cause pain, 
Informing each one " he's another" 

They like it, I think, in the main. 


Which the row was begun 

All about two per cent; 
And a zest to the fun 

Was undoubtedly lent 
By Macpherson and Wrixon and Gillies, 

For whom in a rage Duffy went. 

While Vale he appeared 

In a character new, 
As a peaceable bird; 

He would just say a few 
Quiet words, that would suit the occasion, 

The rancour he'd try and subdue. 

While Macpherson says " Don't, 

Francis," L. L. says " Do, 
Withdraw !" " No ! I won't, 

I'll punch his d — d head in the city." 

He thought for a time — he withdrew. 

And thus ended the row, 

Which was hot for a while ; 
But I doubt, even now, 

Notwithstanding the smile 
Which adorned the next night some one's features, 

If the peace is not simply futile. 


For he told them that night 
He would give them a treat, 

And he seemed so polite, 
As in accents quite sweet 

He invited them all on the Nelson, 
To view our colonial fleet. 

They could each bring one wife 

And a daughter, or son, 
To prevent any strife, 

When the voyage begun ; 
That two tickets were all he could issue 

To members who went for the fun. 

And I know one or two . 

Who'll be there for the spree, 
And to view the review 

Of the fleet on the sea; 
While the Moet and Shandon keeps popping, 

Let's hope they will try and agree. 

Then on last Tuesday night, 

When they went for supply, 
Casey rose in his might 

To catch Davies' eye, 
And talked about schools that aren't vested — 

He raked up again the old cry. 


The House could not agree, 
Though his talk was so bland, 

And it could not well see 

(Though the gestures were grand 

Which were used by Ex-Chancellor Casey, 
As well as the wave of his hand) 

That this motion should pass ; 

So it talked for a while, 
Till the whole of its gas 

Was dispersed. Then a smile 
Illumined the face of the doctor, 

He looked at the clock — the old file ! 

They had talked till the Bill 

Which Permissive is called 
Could not be brought on. Still 

He's not at all galled — 
Oh, no, Mr. Casey is happy, 

It's seldom that he is appalled. 

Which he means to go in, 

And he'll bet his last cent 
He is certain to win. 

We shall see if it's meant, 
Or if it's a popular caper, 

Or motion called " sham" — vide Bent. 


Which it does not become 

Me, a stranger, to write 
Of the doings of some 

Of that circle polite, 
Which was gathered together last Friday, 

And sat until nearly midnight. 

How they chattered away 

On that Liquor Law Bill ; 
And each one had his say 

On its merits, until 
He had fairly exhausted the subject, 

Both Langton and Vale had their fill. 

Or, how Garratt did fume, 

And how Burtt he did fret; 
What a shadow of gloom 

Fell on those who had met 
Determined to pass the said measure — 

They have not accomplished it yet. 

How a count-out is tried, 

But it does not succeed ; 
There are twenty beside 

Mr. Davies. Indeed, 
I'm not sure there are not three and twenty, 

He says, " There's a quorum — proceed." 


With that night set apart 

Or at least given o'er 
By each member, whose heart 

Had resolved once more 
To devote a whole week, if 'twere needful- 

They thought the proposer a bore. 

After keeping them there 

For eight solid good hours, 
He should say it was clear 

That the opposite powers 
Were too strong, and then move for reporting 

Progress. Then his soft voice he lowers — 

And in tones quite subdued, 

But " sarkastik" in style 
(Which his face is imbued 

With a lamb-looking smile), 
He throws the whole blame on the Government 

And says they deceived him. For while 

They had promised to make 
Him a House for that night— 

And there was no mistake 

They had diddled him quite — 

There was only one Minister present ; 
'Twas Longmore, but he was all right. 


Whom the Government Whip 

Had refused to obey, 
Which he gave the straight tip 

(To keep out of way) \ 
To some members whose minds were unstable, 

He, also, had something to say. 

Some one made, in debate, 

An astounding remark, 
Which I here would relate 

(For it fell like a spark 
Which is known by the name of electric) — 

Some people might think it a lark. 

" There are five men asleep 

On the benches ; look round, 
Mr. Davies, and weep. 

Nowhere else could be found 
Such a sight as the one that confronts you- 

One member emits a strange sound." 

And it is " all along 

O' that very same Bill," 
Which is urged on so strong, 

But's opposed to the will 
Of the men who do not believe in it; 

I think they're opposed to it still. 


Let us hope it is true 
What I hear of this Bill, 

That it will not pass through 
Many stages, until 

It is thrown in the waste-paper basket, 
Or sent down to S. Ramsden's milL 


NO. IV. 

When they went for supply, 
It was Thursday night last, 

Which E. Cohen was by, 
And he stuck hard and fast 

For a quantity more of the rhino, 
Ere he'd let any items be passed. 

Though they did not " heave rocks," 

Like the Stanislaw men; 
Yet they gave some hard knocks 

To each other, and when 
E. Cohen called Berry " another," 

The scene became lively. And then, 


How the Treasurer raved, 

And he called some hard names, 
Said they'd much misbehaved, 

And had been up to games, 
Had been, in fact, making misstatements ; 

He scolds just as well as Sir James. 

For he does it too much, 

But his temper is vile, 
And his language is such 

As is not free from guile; 
He makes such unpleasant assertions, 

He's bound all their passions to rile. 

So the forms were all used, 

And the language grew warm, 
For all round were abused, 

Till at length, 'mid the storm 
Which had grown to its height, the X Chairman 

Adopted the usual form 

To get rid of us all, 

Viz., the strangers, I mean; 
But I thought they looked small, 

While emerging between 
Two others, I turned back to gaze on 

That " far, far from gay" gaudy scene. 


And I'm told when they'd got 

All the House to themselves, 
That the whole blessed lot, 

Like the fairies and elves, 
Disported and played till past midnight; 

Some brought in big books from the shelves. 

And I've heard for a fact, 

Which I here would unfold, 
That a very compact 

Little coterie told 
G. B. they would stick for a session, 

But what they would collar the gold 

Which the sick and the poor 

Could not well do without. 
When I just think it o'er, 

I believe there's no doubt 
They were right, and that Berry should give it ; 

It's hard to tell what he's about. 

For a wail and cry 

Has gone out through the land, 
Yet he calmly stands by 

With the help in his hand 
They require, and will not let them have it ; 

It is more than I well understand. 


NO. V. 

So on Thursday again, 

When the charity vote 
Caused the Treasurer pain, 

In the language I quote 
He addressed the Committee quite quiet; 

One sentence I here wish to note. 

" If they want any more 

At the end of the year, 
Though refusing before, 

It has now been made clear 
They must have it, and therefore I promise, 

What more can I offer ?" Hear ! Hear! 

Then E. Cohen went on 

With a sly, quiet grin, 
And dilating upon 

All the virtues within 
Contained by each local committee, 

A good yarn he managed to spin. 

But I cannot conceal 

E'en a tittle or jot 
Of the joy that I feel 

At their getting the lot 
They went for; I'm sure they deserved it, 

Aye, whether they got it or not. 


But before I conclude, 

Or the session is o'er, 
I was present and viewed, 

Standing up on the floor, 
Charles Gavan, with nostrils extended, 

The night he caused such a furore. 

For I heard him declaim 

In a masterly style, 
On the slander his name 

Had been subject to — while 
His hearers were thrilled with emotion ; 

He seemed all their hearts to beguile, 

When he told of the wrong 

That was done in the land 
Of his birth, and the strong 

Depth of feeling the band 
Of devoted young patriots cherished ; 

His language approached on the grand. 

And a cheer rent the air 

When the last sounds had ceased, 
Then a buzz and a stare 

Showed his hearers were pleased, 
And had hung on his words with enjoyment 

Each sentence had simply increased. 


Now it seems like a dream, 

When we look back a space, 
On the change of esteem 

Which has since taken place 
In the minds of a good many people, 

Respecting that gentleman's race. 

For it was to be short, 

It bids fair to be long ; 
He has met with support 

Which is hearty and strong 
From the House. Let us hope he'll deserve it. 

He'll not then go very far wrong. 


When on Thursday morn last, 

With the sky all serene, 
And hurrying quite fast, 

All the members are seen 
On their way to the Spencer-street station ; 

They're bound for the Nelson, I ween. 


And the train is quite jammed 

With the guests of the day, 
And each carriage is crammed 

As it starts on its way, 
With bright hopes of a fine day's enjoyment; 

They had one, I'm happy to say. 

Now I'd got an invite 
Sent by Snikney my friend, 

Which I thought most polite ; 
So among them I wend 

My way to the famed fishing village, 
My steps to the Nelson I bend. 

Where I find on the deck, 

With his spy-glass in hand, 
A gold band round his neck, 

And he really looked grand, 
That Turner whom Whiteman and Clark had 

Assailed as not fit to command. 

But Fm free to confess 

He was courteous and kind, 

And I here would express 
What was then in my mind — 

He behaved like a man and a sailor ; 
I think he has been much maligned. 


When all hands were on board, 

And the Viscount had come, 
And the big guns had roared 

To the sound of the drum, 
Then the fleet started off on its voyage, 

It went but a few miles from home. 

Then the Cerberus fired 

At a mark on the lee, 
And the gazers admired, 

But 'twas said the fusee 
Would not burst the big shell in its transit, 

It fell quite intact in the sea. 

While the luncheon was on, 
All the guests were below; 

When the speeches were done, 
Which were voted as slow, 

The deck was got ready for tripping 
" Upon the fantastic light toe." 

Then the guns roared again, 
And the ladies screamed out, 

And I here would explain 
What it all was about : 

We had sent off the vice-regal party, 
Had told them, in fact, to get out. 


Then we steamed off once more, 
And the flirting was on, 

While each countenance wore 
Happy traces of fun ; 

All went in a burster for pleasure, — 
E'en Berry seemed happy for one. 

And M'Lellan's face beamed 
With a good-humoured smile, 

While O'Grady's eye gleamed 
With a twinkle of guile, 

Full of mischief, as eggs of albumen, 
He enjoyed his cigar all the while. 

Now suffice it to say, 

For the rest of the trip 
An enjoyable day 

Was enjoyed on that ship, 
By most of our famed legislators, 

By ministers, members, and whip. 

Ah! "But who pays the bill?" 

Is a query IVe heard, 
And there's no doubt it will 
. By some folks be inferred, 
Should it ever again be discussed, 

That it was most extremely absurd. 


For while members are paid 

Their three hundred a year, 
It should never be said 

They indulged in good cheer 
At the cost of the State. But I fancy 

That none of the grumblers were there. 


On Wednesday the House 

"Resoluted" to go 
To a whitebait carouse, 

And the next day to show 
Its delight as it witnessed the races ; 

The Stranger "delighted" also. 

And the scene in the stand, 

O'er the hill, on the lawn, 
Was bewitchingly grand • 

While the carriages, drawn 
Up in rows, were all filled with gay faces. 

As bright as a beautiful dawn. 


And the rich, dazzling hues 
Of the dresses are seen 

Softly blending, the blues 
With the -crimson and green; 

While tresses of marvellous colour 
Adorn this most wonderful scene. 

; Twas a glorious sight, 

And the Stranger felt proud 

To behold the delight 
Of the numerous crowd 

That assembled on Thursday together, 
Such quiet demeanour they showed. 

After scanning around 
All the beauty and blood, 

Which is there to be found 
From the mansion and stud, 

And a couple of contests are over, 
Away to the luncheon all scud; 

Where a magic white cloth 
O'er the green sward is spread, 

And the bright creamy froth 
Sparkles up to a head, 

And Cliquot and stout are the tipple 
To wash down the poultry and bread. 


Which it's one of the best 

Institutions he knows, 
And gives quite a zest 

To the day, as it goes 
Far to cheer up a fellow who's losing, 

And mitigates some of his woes. 

When the luncheon is o'er, 

And the sweepstakes are drawn, 

Then the ladies once more 
Are away to the lawn, 

To look at the long list of starters, 
As well as the numbers withdrawn. 

Now with feelings intense, 
Every eye on the course, 

The excitement's immense 
As each highly bred horse 

Emerges to take the first canter — 
The starters all muster in force. 

As they rank up in line 

With G. Watson close by, 
And to start all incline 

When it's Go! is the cry, 
And the flag drops in front of the horses, 

Away from the jump they all fly. 


Like the rush of a herd 

Of wild oxen they bound, 
Madly tearing the sward 

With a thundering sound. 
Barbelle leads while passing the paddock,. 

And close to her Praetor is found. 

When down goes the Monk 
And his Lordship of Lynne, 

And a terrible funk 
Poor old Glencoe is in, 

As Lang steers him wide of the horses, 
His chance is extinct for a win. 

They are speeding away 

By the abbattoirs' gate, 
And the game little grey 

Won't allow them to wait; 
A good many now are in trouble, 

While watching the colours of Tait. 

With a rush and a swirl 

Round the corner they come, 

"It's Pyrrhus ! if s Pearl ! 
% No, it's Lapdog!" cry some; 

The little grey horse couldn't finish, 
The pace was too fast coming home. 


Then a look of dismay 
Spread itself all around, 

And the faces so gay- 
Just before, might be found 

To have lengthened some distance on learning 
That Pearl as the winner was crowned. 

For he had not been backed, 

Though a hundred to one 
Had been offered ; they lacked 

(As is frequently done) 
The courage to back an outsider, 

So once again Sydney has won. 

Which the prophets were out 

In their tips, to a man; 
And there can be no doubt 

That the Pearl, when he ran 
To the front, was a fluke of that nature 

Few dreamt of before he began. 



On Mr. Higinbotham's clattses to give the franchise to the Ladies. 

Mein Gott ! vot a row in ze Haus is 
Oop kicked py a Memper lashd night, 

Ven he prings in zome nice liddle glauses 
To make all ze vomen qvide right. 


As he rises mit mildest of woices, 
Round, resonant, glear, und distinct; 

Und tells how his poosom reyoices, 
Und how air his sympathies linked 

Mit vomen, zeir wrongs und zeir drouble, 
Zeir crief und zeir voe are hish own, 

Hish heart id pead often ash double 
Ven he dinks how zey suffer and croan. 

Das bolidicks all coes to plazes, 
Bolidicians are not voorth a mouse, 

Und to make all dings vit in zeir blaces, 
Ze fraus moost goom into ze Haus. 

Ze vomen must all pecome voders, 
Ze voorld isn't save iv zey don't; 

Men? Psha! zey air noding pud doters — 
I'll shlade 'em, you zee iv I von't. 

Zen Purvis oop rise, mit hish bockeds 
All villed mit his hants, und he zay : 

" Led vomens vear vatches und lockeds, 
Und home mit zeir vamilies stay. 

" Ve nod vants em here on ze penches; 

Mein Gott, vhat a sight shall us greet 
If eight shdrapping coot-looking venches 

Should down sid oopon ze vront seat. 


u Ve gits zen no more obbozition, 

Ze shief rises oop mit a shmile, 
4 Misdress Sbeaker, mit your kind bermission 

I glaims your attention avhile, 

' Et zetera und zo vort und zo on.' " 

Vale enters ze list vor ze fraus, 
Und Vhideman, M'Lellan, und Cohen 

Take oop z'oder side ov ze Haus. 

Und Mac lie zay dis, " Ven he kits home 
He shbeak mit hiss posom 7 s own vife, 

'My tear, id is dime vhat ve make some 
Arrangement in vuture vor life. 

'You coes mit ze Barleymint houses, 

I shtops mit za papies, my tear; 
You shtay vhere ze memper garouses. ; ; ' 

Veil! veil! id does zeem fery qveer! 

Doze grotchets men gets in zeir vancies, 

Doze vhimsies zey gonstantly air, 
Who vant to gif vomen ze franchise, 

Und uproot se voorld efry vhere. 

All vomen may priten zeir peauty, 

Gif Measure vhenever zey come, 
Mit love und avection und duty, 

In ze real magic circle ov home. 

n 2 



Hey diddle diddle, what's this about Hiddle ? 
Who makes such a bother and fuss, 
And says that he never will play second fiddle 
To any colonial cuss. 

Hickory dickory dark, 

To listen to Williamstown Clark, 

As he states Hiddle's case 

To the House, in his place, 
Is a Parliamentarian lark. 

Woods, what is the matter, that you chatter, chatter, 


In that never-ending style you know so well, 
That your tongue goes clatter clatter, 
In a ceaseless patter patter, 

Like the tintinnabulation of a new electric bell ? 

Now, really, Graham Berry, 

1 am sorry for it, very, 

That you havn't got a trifle more of nous — 
That you shout, and rave, and storm, 
In a most obnoxious form, 

Till you weary everybody in the House. 


What a row is kicked up about Stanley, 
They say that his conduct's not manly, 

Though he once took a Riddell, 

He wouldn't take Hiddle — 
He's obstinate, very, is Stanley. 

There is one of the Smiths called the Major, 

Can be backed for a very large wager 
To talk by the hour, with a forty-horse power — 

He's a tall 'un for talk is the Major. 

[The many personal allusions in the preceding pieces will, I trust, be 
taken in good part by those referred to ; they were not written ill- 
naturedly, nor with the desire to wound the feelings of any one men- 

I have been requested to publish from Hansard the two following 
1 speeches. It may not be wise to do so perhaps, but, nevertheless, at 
the risk of whatever may be said about them, I have ventured to comply 
therewith : — 


At this late period of the debate, 
I rise with diffidence, to briefly state 
What my opinions are upon the Bill 
Before the House. In doing so, I will 


Keep within view one most important part, 
Which other speakers who have had the start 
Of me have brought before your notice. Sir, 
I mean the squatting tenure, and the stir 
Which it has caused among their many friends, 
Who deem it just, and those who think the ends, 
Of justice will be foiled, and that a wrong 
Most gross, most palpable, a glaring wrong, 
Will be perpetuated. Sir, I'm bound 
To think this tenure will become the ground- 
Work of, and tend to centralise, a power 
Within th' administration of the hour 
Which never should exist in one man's hands. 
Is it not monstrous, sir, that all the lands 
This colony possesses, east and west, 
From north to south, from mallee to the best 
Broad acres clear and ready for the plough, 
Should be so dealt with ? Sir ! I put it now 
To this Assembly, in plain spoken words, 
If one provision in this Bill affords 
To tenants of the Crown freedom of thought ? 
If they're not all politically bought? 
If every squatter's acts will not be scanned, 
If every free selector who has land 
Will not be governed by the Minister 
In power ? And none can tell what sinister 
Designs some men may basely entertain. 
My duty, sir, appears to be so plain- 
Ly pointed out, that I don't hesitate 
To say, " and say it boldly," if the fate 


Of this Land Bill of eighteen sixty-nine 

Depended on my vote, it would not shine 

Among the statutes which adorn our shelves ; 

But members are not true unto themselves 

In times like these. What do 'we hear them say 

In this debate, spun out from day to day? 

" We'll pass the second reading of the Bill 

With this proviso, only wait until 

We get it in committee, then you'll see 

What ducks and drakes we'll make of it." For me, 

I disapprove entirely of the plan 

They would adopt. Sir, I am not the man 

To vote for what I feel convinced is wrong. 

It's monstrous, sir, that after all the strong 

Long-winded arguments which we have heard 

From legal gentlemen; and seems absurd 

To laymen like myself, how they arrive 

(And to do so most earnestly they strive) 

At such conclusions as they seem to do. 

It's very funny from the point of view 

From which I see it. Sir, have we not seen 

An honourable member, James M'Kean, 

For three hours nearly labouring hard to show 

The great defects this Act contains ? We know 

That in proportion as he pulled the Bill 

To pieces, so he would support it. Still 

Further, we've had from members on both sides 

The House, some curious speeches. But what guides 

Me chiefly in the course I shall pursue, 

In voting, sir, as I intend to do, 


Against the second reading of this Bill, 

Is principle. I feel within, a still 

Small voice, which whispers to me, " You are right 

In what you are doing." Sir, I do not quite 

Approve of all this 'arbitrary power, 

Which to a Government will be a tower 

Of strength. And, sir, I do believe in laws. 

I am aware the forty-second clause 

Has done a wonderful amount of good 

Throughout the land ; and there is no one would 

Sooner than I, see James Macpherson Grant 

Administer the laws to those who want 

To get a home within this wide domain, 

Where he, as lord o' the soil, shall proudly reign ; 

But instances have frequently occurred 

Where gross injustice has been done. We heard 

Last night one case of hardship brought to light, 

And doubtless more exist ; and perhaps we might 

(If opportunity were but allowed 

To have them sifted) not be quite so proud 

Of some transactions, and should slightly pause 

Ere we confer this sought-for power — this clause, 

Which gives this arbitrary, potent sway 

To those in office, and which, members say, 

Will be remodelled in committee. Well, 

Perhaps it will ; but thus much I will tell 

These honourable gentlemen, I'll be 

No party to oppose it there. I see 

A combination likely to take place 

Which I don't mean to join in. Take the case 


Of some who say they will support this Bill — 
A sham support I call it ; they would kill 
The measure. But I think they are not game 
To say so. Sir, these very poor and lame 
Excuses do not suit my book at all. 
I shall oppose it, let what may befall. 
Another word or two, Sir, in conclusion. 
If I may be allowed, without intrusion, 
I'll venture on this very slight remark, 
If honourable members hit the mark 
They aim at when the Bill is in committee, 
It will be riddled so that I shall pity 
The feelings of the draftsman. It is plain 
To me he'll never know his Bill again. 

THE TARIFF— 1867. 

Twill tax us in eating, 'twill tax us in drinking, 
'Twill tax us in sleeping, and tax us while thinking, 
Or walking, or riding ; 'twill be all the same 
With the man at his work, or the boy at his game — 
The bat which he handles, the ball which he kicks — 
The trowel that's used in the laying of bricks ; 
From the carpenter's saw, to the costly chronometer ; 
The mariner's compass, the seaman's barometer; 


From the gardener's spade, to Sir Francis's wig; 

From the barrow or cart, to the brougham and gig ; 

From the matches that little boys hawk in the street, 

To the carpet that's spread at the wealthy man's feet ;. 

The child's penny trumpet, the lollies it sucks, 

The ponderous steam locomotive and trucks ; 

The physic that's needful in life's many ills — 

From cod-liver oil down to Holloway's pills ; 

The fruits for dessert, both bananas and figs, 

Are arranged side by side with bandanas and wigs ; 

The dishes we eat off, the spoons which we use, 

The water-tight, hobnailed, and white satin shoes; 

The chairs that we sit in, the bed we recline on, 

The table round which we assemble to dine on ; 

The moleskins and blankets the swagman provides, 

Ere he roams through the bush o'er the blue mountain sides : 

The pick of the miner, the oil which he burns, 

The lamp it's consumed in, the rope as it turns 

Round the drum of his windlass — are all taxed their share; 

And a curse on the Tariff resounds through the air. 

cfr etf> e**> r\*^ e°& efr <& efo fjp e^> r~*~-> ftp ffr <x?> c^ cfo (fr 


jTLTAIL to the star of Masonry! whose pure and radiant 

<SJ light 

Resplendent shines o'er land and sea, by day as well as 

How great its charm there's none can tell, but those who 

know its power — 
Its mystic, magic-working spell, to cheer life's darkest hour : 
'Tis a glorious star, and sheds its ray 
O'er all the world, from day to day. 

Hail to the gem, True Charity ! O, may it e'er be worn 
By every Mason, just and free, the Order to adorn; 
Hail to the three grand principles on which Freemasons rest, 
Fraternal Love, Relief, and Truth, enshrined within each 

Pure satisfaction will impart, 

To the just and upright Mason's heart. 

Hail to the Craft ! whose secret arts and hidden mysteries 

A wondrous power o'er all the hearts of Masons, young and 



And while that power retains its sway with undiminished 

With fervent zeal and freedom pay glad homage to the 

Pure star, that shines and sheds its ray 
O'er all the world, from day to day. 

Hail to the Craft! to which belongs a great and mighty band 
Of Brethren famed in art, in song, the noblest in the land; 
Princes and dukes its ranks still seek ; where'er its flag may 

It welcomes the just, the free, the meek, but ne'er admits 
the slave. 

All hail to the Craft ! it still shall be 
The Craft we love, Freemasonry ! 

May, 1859. 

I have selected the following three Addresses as specimens of the 
many which I have written and spoken on different occasions, hoping 
they will not be unacceptable to my many readers and subscribers in 
the Orders referred to. — J. W. 


Spoken in the Foresters' Hall, Fitzroy, at a Benefit for a Brother nvJio had been 
burned out of house and home. 

We've met to-night to do a kindly deed — 
To lend a helping hand to some in need. 
The fiend of fire is stalking through the land, 
Making the night look hideously grand, 


Gloating o'er homes and hearths made desolate, 

Scattering ruin at a speedy rate. 

Blaze follows blaze, and crackling sparks ascend, 

While shrieks of " Fire !" the silent night-air rend. 

Lo ! one short hour has served to seal the fate 

Of that fine theatre, where we have sate 

And seen the triumphs of a G. V. Brooke, 

A Cleveland's talents, a Montgomery's look ; 

Heard Bishop sing, and Miska Hauser play ; 

Seen Lambert laugh in his peculiar way; 

Watched Rogers revel in the broad burlesque 

Or portray characters the most grotesque ; 

Beheld the " stars" of every magnitude, 

Both great and small, the bad as well as good \ 

Seen the rough canvas, touched with magic skill. 

Assume such hues as pleased the artist's will, 

And Hennings' genius shone in every scene, 

From Grecian temple to the meadows green. 

This place of triumphs, and of failures too, 

Has vanished like a quick dissolving view. 

The same fell demon's been at work close by, 

And ruthless ruin meets the gazer's eye ; 

Our fellow-townsman felt, alas ! too soon, 

His ravages, that fatal afternoon, 

As shop on shop, and house on house gave way — 

Before the frightful havoc none could stay — 

And utter desolation marked the spot 

Where happy homes had been, and then were not. 

What is our duty now ? What brings us here ? 

The ruined ones to comfort and to cheer 


In this the hour of their calamity ! 
Our duty seems most clearly marked to me, 
There is a maxim we must keep in view : 
" How quickly can the many help the few !" 


Written and spoken at a concert held in the Mechanics* Institute, Emerald Hill, 

April 28th, 1873, on behalf of the ividotu a7id children of a late Brother 

of "Court Clarendon" No. 3545, A.O.F, 

Again on the platform, once more in the hall, 

Kind hearts are assembled at charity's call ! 

A Brother has left us and gone to his rest, 

A widow is mourning with troubles distrest; 

She seeks for our succour, she asks for our aid; 

Her children are helpless ! Then shall it be said 

That false to our Motto we failed to respond ? 

Not while we're united in sympathy's bond : 

Our watchword is there, and it never should fail 

To stir every bosom at sorrow's sad tale. 

And truly 'tis sorrowful ever to know 

That poverty mingles with weeping and woe ; 

That want wages war round the widow's dull hearth ; 

That children must leave the loved home of their birth, 

And refuge receive in the orphan's retreat 

From hunger's keen pangs — from the woes of the street. 


But thus it is, Brothers and friends, even thus 

As I have depicted : need I then discuss 

How best we can help to afford them relief 

In the height of their trouble, the depth of their grief ; 

I know of no time if assistance were sought 

'Twas denied by the Foresters — "perish the thought." 

Our Order is founded on Friendship and Love, 

Its deeds are approved by the High Court above ; 

And when our late Brother, whose spirit has flown 

To a far better land, was by sickness cast down 

In the pride of his manhood, his hopes overthrown ; 

When death-dealing cancer had marked him its own ; 

When big drops rolled down o'er his cold pallid 'brow, 

And slowly and feebly life's current did flow — 

One thought gave him comfort, one thought cheered his 

As he knew from his loved ones he soon must depart ; 
7 Twas the knowledge his lot had been cast in with those 
Who, when " life's fitful fever" was brought to a close 
Would rally round them he was leaving behind; 
That his widow and orphans protection would find. 
And were it not so, whence this goodly array ? 
Those bright honest faces, all seeming to say, 
We wish you God speed, and will help all we can ; 
Say — is it not so ? I believe to a man. 



Delivered at the Theatre Royal, on behalf of a Lodge of the United Ancient 
Order of Drtiids, 

Our ancient Druids in the times of old 

Were men of learning, eloquence, and fire — 

' Twas they who swayed the councils of the Gaul. 

And Greek and Roman writers tell us how 

Their sage advice ruled British chieftains, when 

The bold marauding foe made fierce attack 

On Britain's Isle, and spurred them fiercely on 

To deeds of valour • ' tis from them we learn 

How poets sung, how orators were made, 

How warriors sprung when they essayed to speak, 

How high in state they held the proudest seats ; 

Nor brooked the interference e'en of kings 

Or chieftains ; that amidst the tide of war, 

When front to front their hostile armies stood 

With spears extended, or with swords all drawn, 

The rude rough eloquence of some bold bard 

Has stayed their hands, and bade them 'sheathe their swords. 

We learn from this same source their magic skill, 

Their powers in medicine, and healing herbs, 

Their starry lore, and status of high birth; 

The sway they wielded o'er their rude compeers, 

The wide expanse of knowledge they possessed 

In all the arts that mechanists e'er knew; 


'Geometry, arithmetic, to them 
Were but as children's play ; as witness yet 
The monuments of their enduring fame, 
Which still remain as records of their skill ; 
Stonehenge ! with all its ponderous blocks, raised high 
On lofty pillars, firm and and upright fixed, 
Their obelisks and rocking stones, which stand 
On mountain sides, and erst in shady nooks, 
Speak volumes, telling of their name and fame. 
But Druids now, in our immediate days 
(When science round the world a girdle puts, 
And on its belt the thoughts of man are flashed 
To points of earth remote, which back from thence 
Flash quick with lightning speed), are men 
Who practise rites of good and graceful deeds ; 
The oak their emblem ; firm as is its stem 
Together stand, staunch, energetic men, 
With purpose pure ; high objects to be gained, 
Their aims and end to aid the widowed one; 
To solace sorrowing hearts when sickness comes 
With all its wants and woes ; to give relief 
When dire distress assails ; to help to cheer 
I In hour of bitter need, a brother's grief. 



Fie ! fie ! Mr. Pratt, you are greatly to blame 
For the course you pursued in your late little game. 
The papers are wroth that you dared to inquire 
In that very rude way, which they didn't admire; 
Such small fry as you should maintain a still tongue, 
Nor ask such impertinent questions of Young. 
What business have you, sir, to make such remarks? 
You are not a director, so none of your larks : 
Pray don't interfere, and you'll find it all right, 
They have settled with Young, and have got rid of Wright; 
The sum is but small — say two thousand five hundred, 
And cheap, though the shareholders, some of them, won- 
The Bank mustn't suffer, though you have to pay, 
And look with a smile which is pleasant and gay. 
There are always some fellows like you in a crowd, 
Who "want just to know, you know," if they're allowed; 
But it isn't convenient just at the present, 
So pray hold your tongue, sir, fork out, and look pleasant. 
What right, sir, had you to be down upon Smith ? 
He is a director, not merely a myth ; 
And though Mr. L. declined taking the chair, 
He still is the chairman, and so pray beware; 
And the next time you go to a meeting like that, 
You are told to be decent, my dear Mr. Pratt. 


Don't pry quite so close into all the affairs 

Which are kept from the ken of the holders of shares ; 

Your share is to pay for the blunders they make 

Who engage and dismiss without any mistake, 

Except a few thousands or so at a time ; 

This cannot be helped, and you know it's no crime 

To disburse these amounts when they are not their own. 

So I think, Mr. Pratt, it's conclusively shown 

That your conduct has been, what it never should be, 

Indecent and rude in the highest degree. 


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